


“I’d Rather Change Nappies Than Have My Cock Sucked” and Other Ravings of a Pregnant Wizard

by Frayach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like everything else between Harry and Draco, pregnancy and child rearing are fraught with drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“I’d Rather Change Nappies Than Have My Cock Sucked” and Other Ravings of a Pregnant Wizard

The pain came at night. _Cruciatus_ couldn’t possibly be worse. He’d curled around his belly. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and his hair stuck to his face. He thinks he screamed, but he doesn’t remember. All he can recall is pain sawing through his consciousness like a serrated blade. 

Suddenly, the light was on, and Harry was leaping out of bed, leaving the mattress jiggling. The movement made him feel ill, and he pushed up on his elbows and vomited feebly on his pillow. Fuck. Fuck the fucking midwife and her “spiritual mystical birth rituals.” Fuck the prenatal classes full of witches with their breathing mantras. There’d been one other homosexual couple, but they’d been through it all before. When the midwife spoke of contractions, they’d just smiled knowingly at each other. Fuck them. But then again, the pregnant partner had made Professor Slughorn look svelte. He looked like he’d had room in there for septuplets. Fat ugly Mudblood pig.

He hadn’t been in the mood to be socially sensitive.

“Shit! Draco, are you okay?”

Fuck Harry too. Long and hard with a hot poker. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. You can go back to sleep.”

Harry laughed weakly as he struggled into his jeans. 

“You stupid arse,” he said fondly. “Fuck, this is fucking scary.” He sat down on the edge of the bed to pull his socks on, and Draco threw up again, although this time on the floor, which was an improvement.

“Will you stop jiggling the bloody mattress?”

“Er, uh, sorry . . . I didn’t know . . . oh my God, I can’t believe this is finally happening! We’re going to be parents!”

Draco also would’ve preferred that Harry not shout. It was not helping. Plus, he wanted to correct Harry and tell him that _he’d_ be a parent while he, Draco, would be six-feet under the sod pushing up daffodils. 

But that would’ve required a sense of humour, and Draco had lost his sometime around the third contraction.

“Draco, love, tell me what to do . . . .”

Merlin’s purple butt plug. He could not be serious.

“Get. The. Bag. And. Call. Someone. _Now_.”

The bag was already packed. It even contained the book he’d been reading in case he . . . what? . . . got bored between contractions or something? The people they’d been when they’d gone to bed last night now seemed like the two stupidest people on the face of the planet. Had they also packed a quill and some parchment? Perhaps he’d like to start writing the birth announcements when he got tired of reading. 

“Draco, can you stand up?”

All he could do was shake his head. Harry ran to the Floo.

“We need an ambulance!” he’d yelled. “. . . No, we can’t Apparate! We can’t Floo either! . . . What do you mean there’re no levitating ambulances available? Christ! Tell them it’s Harry Potter who’s asking for God’s sake!”

Draco had never heard him invoke his hero status before, and he doubted he ever would again. It was sobering. He’d leaned on Harry as he stood up, clutching his arm and feeling like an invalid. The pain was tearing him apart. 

“It’s okay,” Harry kept saying over and over. “Put all your weight on me. They’ll be here soon. At least they bloody well better be.”

Draco was sure he’d held Harry’s arm so tightly he’d left bruises. Time had never passed so slowly. He was fighting to keep standing. He was fighting to stay conscious. He was quite literally fighting for two lives.

The thought of the baby inside him made him terrified. Only two thirds of the infants born from same sex unions survived. And when the babies died during delivery, the pregnant partner often died too. 

“Don’t leave me!” he’d begged Harry. Both his courage and his pride had deserted him on the way to St. Mungo’s.

Harry grabbed his hand with both of his and kissed it. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he’d said fiercely. “I’ll be right here beside you when you wake up. Draco, you’re going to be all right. I love you too much to let anything happen to you . . .”

He’d smiled weakly as the Healer cast the sleeping spell. “My hero,” he’d said with affectionate sarcasm. And then even more weakly, “See you later.” The last thing he’d remembered was Harry clutching his hand and whispering a protective charm over and over.

* * * *

 

Harry loses control and begins thrusting erratically. His breath is warm and moist against the back of Draco’s neck.

The Healers had told them on Monday that it was safe to resume “sexual intimacy” again. Harry had blushed, and Draco had thought it was due to the Healer’s words, but then he’d glanced down at Harry’s lap.

“So good . . . Draco,” he gasps. “Feels so . . . Oh God . . . I’m coming . . .”

Instead of losing his mind at Harry’s words as he used to, all he can think of is pain ripping at his guts, tearing him apart, making him wish he was dead. 

He hadn’t come. He hadn’t even got hard.

Harry’s groan sounds like pure sweet release. His hips surge forward and slam up against Draco’s arse. As soon as his orgasm ends, he reaches down to seize Draco’s cock. 

“Roll over,” he says breathlessly, and Draco reluctantly complies, careful to pull the sheet over his hideous belly. Harry swallows his cock and sucks. The sounds he makes are sloppy and urgent. He knows Harry is desperate to make him come. This will be the fifth night in a row that he hasn’t even got an erection.

After a while, Draco reaches down and touches Harry’s ear. Harry lets his cock slip from his lips. It doesn’t even twitch. Harry is very quiet for a moment before he gets up and goes into the bathroom. Draco hears the shower turn on.

Fuck. 

Mercifully, their baby starts to cry. He pulls on his baggiest pyjama bottoms and goes to the room across the hall. Scorpius is fussing in his cot. Draco picks him up and rubs his back in little circles just as his mother had shown him.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, and has to bite his tongue before adding “ _again_??”

He sits down in the leather armchair they’d bought when the pregnancy was in its third month and looked like it was viable. Neither of them wanted a nursery full of pastel colours and pictures of cuddly animals. Scorpius’s cot was plain wood and the mobile above him depicted Quidditch players and Quaffles and one shining Snitch. Of course the colours were Slytherin and Gryffindor. The only other whimsical thing in the nursery was a Black heirloom – a tapestry depicting a rearing unicorn in a garden. Harry had found it stuffed in an old trunk while he’d been cleaning out Grimmauld Place in preparation for selling it. It’d needed a lot of repair, but it was worth it. The colours were rich and intricate. His mother and aunt estimated it was worth as much as, if not more than, the entirety of Grimmauld Place and all it contained.

Scorpius scrunches up his tiny face and lets out a frustrated cry. Wrapping him in a blanket, Draco helps him latch onto his poor abused nipple. Thankfully, he hadn’t grown proper breasts as some wizards do, but the flesh around his nipples was slightly swollen and very tender. Growing breasts would’ve been the proverbial last straw in his already straw-bare broom.

After awhile Harry comes in and sits in the old ratty armchair. He doesn’t meet Draco’s eyes when he asks if Scorpius is okay.

“He’s fine, just hungry is all.”

“Listen, Draco . . .”

“I’m not having this conversation. Not now.”

Harry sighs and scrubs his face with his palms, making his damp hair stick up in spikes like a hedgehog.

“It’s weird making love to someone who’s just waiting for you to hurry up and get off so it’ll all be over.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well then, when _will_ we talk about it?”

Harry’s voice is tinged with frustration.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” Draco snaps. “You’re the one getting off.” 

Harry flinches. “I feel like an arsehole making love to you when you’d rather be plucking your nose hair or scrubbing the bottom of the tub or something.”

Draco sighs. Apparently, they _are_ going to have this conversation.

“Well excuse me for not wanting to be a receptacle for your semen when I’m exhausted and in pain.” He pulls a persistent Scorpius off his nipple and points at it. “You try to get it up when any and everything that touches your tits makes you want to bite your tongue off.”

“Fine, I won’t touch them. I haven’t even tried to. Listen, Draco, the Healers say it’s okay now.” 

“Okay in theory, but not necessarily in practice.” 

Harry tilts his head against the back of his chair.

“We haven’t had sex since you started your seventh month, and it’s been six weeks since Scorpius was born. That’s more than three months without being able to have sex with you. It’s killing me! I need you.”

If he wasn’t nursing their son, Draco would’ve got up and punched him. Hard.

“Wow,” he says. “Forgive me for giving you blue balls while I was having my liver slowly squashed and my kidneys squeezed to the size of marbles.”

Harry covers his face with his hands.

“But you’ve given birth! Nearly a month and a half ago!”

This – _this_ – is the problem. Harry simply has no clue. After all, he hadn’t been the one vomiting nearly everyday. He hadn’t been the one struggling to make a virtually impossible pregnancy work by restricting his movements and surrendering his position as Seeker for the Magpies. He hadn’t been the one in constant discomfort. He hadn’t been the one who’d had to set aside fifteen minutes just to take a piss. He hadn’t been the one whose body was trying to produce nourishment for a foetus. He wasn’t the one who almost died during delivery. He wasn’t the one who was having his nipples chewed on every other hour.

And he wasn’t the one carrying around an extra stone and feeling slow and tired and repulsive.

The only response Draco can come up with that could express all of these thoughts at once is a nasty glare and a lip-curling sneer.

“You mean to tell me that you feel nothing – nothing at all?”

Nothing besides frustration and mortification?

“The only thing I feel is pressure.”

“Fine,” Harry says, standing up so fast that he almost tips over the chair. “I won’t _pressure_ you anymore.”

Draco inhales sharply. This is why he hadn’t wanted to have this conversation. He and Harry took things to the brink – to the point where things can get unfixable.

“That’s what hands were made for,” he says recklessly. “Have you ever heard of wanking?”

“WHAT?! Did you just tell me to have a wank?! Fuck you, Draco! What do you think I’ve been doing? My dick is as chafed as your nipples from wanking!”

“I doubt that,” Draco mutters under his breath. 

Scorpius starts to cry.

“Bloody hell! Now look what you’ve done!”

Harry’s expression immediately goes from enraged to contrite. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have shouted like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Draco replies, trying to soothe their son and help him latch on again.

“I’m just so . . .”

“So what, Potter?”

Harry looks at him. From long years of experience, Draco knows his eyes are ice cold; he’d perfected the look by the time he was ten.

“Nothing.”

“Good answer.”

Harry turns and walks out of the room, leaving Draco feeling shaken. How long would it be before he drove Harry into someone else’s bed?

 

* * * *

 

For the first few months of the pregnancy, Harry had been a moving target. He was up at dawn every morning cooking breakfast for an army and then tidying up the flat like a one-person manorial staff of house-elves. Even when Draco had been feeling well enough to help, his attempts had been thwarted. It’d been both endearing and annoying. He’d hated being treated like an invalid.

“You do realise this bulge is a baby not a tumour,” he’d said one evening after Harry had rearranged the furniture so as to make it less likely that Draco’s movements would be impeded. He’d even shrunk and stored a sofa and coffee table and a large bronze urn, which (coincidently?) Harry had always disliked.

“Also this is _my_ flat. You’re messing around with my impeccable decorating.”

He’d meant it teasingly, but he’d noticed Harry’s face tighten at his emphasis on “my flat.”

They’d started sleeping together (both literally and figuratively) almost immediately. Neither of them had the patience to “take it slow” like all of their friends had urged them. There were too many years of being stupid to make up for.

The one night he’d spent at Grimmauld Place had been enough for him to know he didn’t ever want to spend a second one there. Even though Harry had made some changes, it was still the house he’d visited when he was a child, and being in it brought back memories he’d much rather forget. So, it’d been decided very quickly that Harry should move in with him.

They’d gone from being tentative friends to lovers to flat-mates to spouses in less than a year.

And now, two years later, they were going to be parents. When Draco paused to think about it, he knew they were moving much too quickly. He hadn’t even needed his mother to tell him that, although she continued to do so long after the wedding. Sometimes Draco was still amazed to wake up and find Harry Potter in his bed. It still seemed like an impossible dream after all that time of _wanting_ and not having.

Harry owned very few things he wasn’t willing to part with, and most of them fit into a single trunk. He’d practically been living in the Ministry building since he’d become an Auror. The only piece of furniture they’d had to buy when Harry moved in was a chest of drawers. Everything else had remained the same.

It’d only been relatively recently that Draco had realised this was not a good thing. Sometimes his life seemed like a perch that Harry could fly off of at any time with nothing to carry except a stupid trunk. Their relationship hadn’t yet (if it ever would) stopped being volatile. It was too easy for Harry to go away – and too easy for Draco to tell him to.

But the baby would change all of that. Their lives would finally settle down and weave together seamlessly. Draco would spend less time travelling with his team, and Harry would take on fewer international assignments, and when they were together, they wouldn’t have to fuck as though it was both their first and their last time. The baby would tame them and bring them together in less complicated ways.

At least that’s what he’d thought.

* * * *

 

“Merlin, Draco! Don’t let his head roll back like that! You’re handling a baby, not a sack of potatoes!”

His mother snatches Scorpius away as though he’s in mortal danger.

“Thank you, Mother. You’ll notice he’s not dead yet, so I must not be bollocksing things up completely.”

“Darling. Your language. The baby.”

Christ.

His aunt laughs and takes Scorpius from her sister and holds him up so she can rub his little nose with hers. He makes a sound that Draco is sure is a laugh even though everyone’s told him he won’t laugh until he’s at least 16 weeks old. But what did they know? Scorpius was his baby; of course he’d do everything ahead of schedule. 

“She doesn’t mean any harm, dear. It’s just that this is her grandson we’re talking about. She’s like a Yeti with her yetlet.”

His mother focuses her laser-like attention on him.

“Why are you insisting on going back to that ridiculous team? Scorpius needs you. You can’t possibly be considering giving him to a house-elf to breast-feed.”

And there he’d been thinking that Muggle formula was an abomination.

“Do house-elves even have tits?”

“Of course they do! I am a lady of high society. How do you think you were fed?”

His mouth drops open.

His aunt laughs again. “Go on now. Scorpius will be fine with us. You left us enough milk for the day, didn’t you?”

He feels the blood rush to his face. He was never going to stop feeling like a freak. He’d already wrapped his chest in layers of tightly wound bandages to keep himself from leaking milk on his uniform. The horror. The sheer fucking horror.

“Yes,” he grumbles. “What do you think I spent the predawn hours doing? I can assure you it wasn’t sleeping.”

“Poor darling,” his mother says distractedly, her attention already returning to her grandson. “Don’t fly into a tree. The thought of that man . . . sorry, your ‘husband’. . . raising this poor wee babe is enough to keep me awake at nights.”

“Then perhaps we could keep each other company,” he says as he walks to the hearth after giving Scorpius his one-hundredth good-bye kiss.

“He’s hopelessly smitten,” he hears his aunt say just before the whoosh of the Floo sweeps him away. “Poor Harry.”

He hadn’t a clue what she’d meant. “Poor Harry”? It wasn’t Harry who was rubbing Kamillosan on his nipples and getting up five times a night. “Poor Harry.” Yeah, right.

 

Coach Devlin is ecstatic when Draco walks into the locker room.

“Thank God, you’re here,” he says clutching at Draco’s robe as though Draco was a saint who’d just come back from the dead. “Worthacrock . . . sorry, _Crockaworth_ is injured. We need you to fly this weekend.”

“Uhm, well . . .”

“Whatever that stomach ailment was that you had, it _must_ be gone by now,” Coach Devlin implores. “It’s been _months_ since you’ve been in the air.”

Draco sighs. He’d admonished himself for weeks that when he started to show, he’d tell his team mates that he was pregnant. But then he’d thought of the shit he’d get and chickened out. Instead they thought he’d had a horrendous case of food poisoning. His daily vomiting had served to bolster the lie as did his voluminous robes. He’d convinced everyone he had fever and chills.

But now he was faced with a quandary. He couldn’t keep playing the food poisoning card forever, but he couldn’t belatedly admit he’d been pregnant. He also knew he shouldn’t be flying yet. Harry would kill him if he found out. The Healers had had to cut almost his entire abdomen open and wade through his innards (“the price of not having a vagina,” his mother had said) and stitched up three layers of muscle after Scorpius had been pulled out, bloody and screaming at the top of his lungs. Draco still had the scars to prove it. Also, all his innards had yet to settle back into place again. He was tired of feeling like his intestines were wrapped around his oesophagus.

“Uhm,” he says again.

“Great!” says Coach Devlin, slapping him on the back. “Now get out on the pitch and do some sit-ups.”

 

* * * *

 

The vomiting had been for real; it certainly wasn’t a ruse. He’d cut his hair short because he’d got tired of holding it back from his face. For weeks, the only things he’d been able to keep down were bread and some dreadful kind of orange Muggle soda. 

If Harry was home, he’d come into the toilet with a cushion for Draco to kneel on so his knees wouldn’t bruise from the tile. Thankfully they rarely spoke, but Harry would rub his back and fetch damp cloths to wipe away the sweat from his face.

Contrary to its name, Draco didn’t get sick in the mornings; it was usually around lunchtime, perhaps the most inconvenient and embarrassing time of the day. He’d had to call a stop to his weekly get-togethers with Blaise and Pansy because the last time they’d had lunch, Draco had thrown up into his napkin and had to plead a stomach flu and Apparate home.

“The little parasite obviously wants to kill me by starvation,” he’d told Harry. “Or else sheer mortification. I look like I’ve swallowed a Quaffle.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; you look gorgeous,” Harry had replied. “And stop calling our baby a parasite.” 

One afternoon, he’d been sure he was actually going to throw up their son. He didn’t see why such a thing would be impossible given the near-impossibility of the entire pregnancy.

“I wish I could share what you’re going through,” Harry had said. “I wish this didn’t have to be so hard and scary.”

Draco had merely nodded in acknowledgment of his statement in-between heaves. He’d had his chin resting on the toilet rim, drooling continuously from the nausea.

“Draco, love . . .” Harry had murmured, kissing the back of his neck. “You’re doing great. I’m so proud of you.”

He’d been referencing the Healer’s confirmation that the pregnancy had passed its second critical stage, and their baby was healthy and developing normally.

“You’re so strong. I don’t think I could do what you’re doing.”

“Bollocks. You defeated Voldemort. Don’t patronise me.”

“I’m not; I mean it. Defeating Voldemort was one single act. You’re living with this every minute of your day . . .”

He’d retched, and Harry had wiped his mouth with a cloth. They were quiet for awhile as Draco struggled to get his nausea under control.

“Do you ever wish we weren’t doing this?”

Harry’s voice had been so quiet, Draco almost hadn’t heard him.

“Because we _can_ end this, you know . . . after all, you think it’s a parasite.”

Draco felt something instinctive and primal at Harry’s words.

“Don’t you dare even think about us ending this pregnancy!”

Harry had looked startled and then abashed. “It’s okay,” he’d said soothingly. “It’s okay. I’m just so worried about you . . .”

“I’m the grown wizard,” he said, pointing at his belly. “It’s defenceless and struggling to survive in an unnatural environment. Our job is to _protect_ it . . .”

He’d been interrupted by more retching, but Harry had leaned against him as though he was trying to absorb Draco’s pain and discomfort through his skin.

“It’s okay,” he’d whispered in Draco’s ear. “It’s okay. I love you _both_. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

 

* * * *

 

He lies on the grass sweating and dizzy. He used to be able to do a hundred sit-ups with no problem, but now twenty felt impossible. He’d worked so hard to get fit after his incarceration in Azkaban, and he’d eventually succeeded, winning World Star Seeker four years in a row. Now it felt as though he was back to square one again.

Why had he given into Harry’s pleas? They were only 28. There was plenty of time to have a baby and not nearly as much time to play professional Quidditch. But Harry had wanted a baby so much. He’d painted such sappy pictures of the three of them doing things together that Draco had been caught up in his enthusiasm, and the next thing he’d known, he was sitting on an examination table in a hospital gown having his hand shaken by a succession of Healers. 

Last night, after his and Harry’s mortifying argument, he’d gone into the bathroom, stripped naked, and lit the most unflattering _Lumos_ he was capable of. He’d wanted to see the ugly truth instead of just imagining it. He’d turned this way and that. There was no way to ignore it. He was fat and hideous. Even his bloody feet were fat. It was as though nothing had changed after Scorpius was born – he was still bloated and swollen like a giant blood-sucking eel.

“Looking a little winded there, Malfoy,” says Rumpsford as he jogs by.

Arsehole.

By the time practise was over, he’s drenched in sweat and panting for breath. Every step of their five kilometre run had felt like the last step he’d ever take on earth. In fact, he hadn’t been able to finish and had to walk the last few laps. By that point, people had stopped teasing him and started giving him pitying glances as they passed.

But the physical agony didn’t come close to the mental anguish. He’d found himself swallowing tears whenever he thought of Scorpius, which pretty much meant he was choked up all the time because Scorpius was all he could think of. This was the first time they’d been more than a hallway apart since he was born. Draco’s body wasn’t only pleading with him to stop working out; it was pleading with him to find his baby and hold him to his chest and watch him suckle contentedly.

Merlin. He was turning into a witch. He’d _known_ this would happen! Harry had assured him it wouldn’t, but what did Harry know? Absolutely nothing. He was probably out at that very moment blithely jogging around in bogs or whatever the hell else he did when he was in the field.

“Um,” Coach Devlin says. He looks less thrilled than he had when Draco first arrived. “You gonna be ready to fly on Saturday?”

Draco desperately wants to say no, but his career was starting to look in jeopardy.

“Yeah,” he says, unlacing his muddy boots. “Of course.”

 

Harry has been cooking again. Draco can smell it from the street corner, and when he unlocks the door wearing a manky sweat-stained uniform and carrying Scorpius in his pouch, he can almost taste the gammon and onion. Merlin, he was hungry!

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “For last night.” He puts his arms around Draco and their son and kisses both their cheeks before wrinkling his nose at Draco’s jersey. “I made your favourite quiche so you’ll forgive me.”

Draco would like not to. He was still crabby from his practice, and his mother had lectured him about his “priorities.” When he’d arrived at the Manor, he’d tried to feed Scorpius, but his milk wouldn’t come because of the exercise. Poor Scorpius had wailed with hunger. His mother was furious.

“ _Draco Malfoy! It’s Quidditch that’s the game, not caring for an infant! You need to reconsider your priorities! The Magpies may need you, but not as much as your baby does. Poor wee thing, he’s practically starving to death!_ ”

She’d been pretty effective at making him feel like utter shit.

“How’d the first day back with the team go?” Harry asks, taking Scorpius from him and holding him against his chest so that his blond head rested on his shoulder.

Like so many other things in his life at the moment, Draco didn’t want to talk about it.

“Peachy,” he says. “How was your bog-jogging?”

Harry regards him with a furrowed brow. “Bog-jogging?”

Draco waves his hand at him dismissively and goes into the kitchen. White sauce is bubbling in a pot, and when he opens the oven, he finds a huge yellow cake. His mouth waters. 

But, Merlin, he shouldn’t be eating rich foods! Not given how fat he’s become.

“This all looks lovely,” he says. “But I think I’d prefer a salad.”

Harry had been bouncing Scorpius and clucking and cooing at him like a giant lunatic chicken when he stopped and turned to Draco.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “You’re supposed to be taking in at least 2,500 calories a day. Even more so now that you’ve started back with the team.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m not hungry.”

Harry just stares at him. Draco feels a twinge of remorse. Harry is trying to participate in the intense, nearly-exclusive relationship between him and Scorpius, but he couldn’t seem to figure out how. Draco can see it in Harry’s forlorn look.

“Okay,” he relents. “I’ll have _one_ serving.”

If stomachs could weep with gratitude, his would be sobbing at that moment.

 

An hour later, he’d eaten three servings of quiche and two slices of the lemon sponge cake and now is unable to move. He’s horrified at his lack of self-control, but Harry looks happy, so it seems almost worth it. Draco stands to do the washing-up, but Harry stops him.

“Let me,” he says and hands over Scorpius. “He looks hungry.”

“Potter. That’s his normal expression.”

“Well, maybe he’s always hungry.”

“Ha ha,” Draco says and reaches out with his free hand to pinch and twist Harry’s nipple through his shirt. Harry yelps, and Draco grins.

“Feels great, doesn’t it?”

Harry glares at him before he retreats into the kitchen rubbing his chest.

As he feeds Scorpius, Draco watches the clock on the mantel. Every minute that passed, meant bedtime was closer. He could tell from the way Harry was sneaking glimpses of him that he wanted to have sex. He’d told Draco when they’d first come home with Scorpius that it turned him on to watch Scorpius breast-feed. Draco couldn’t fathom why – especially when breast-feeding made him feel uncomfortable and totally emasculated. But then again, everything turned Harry on. Even the sound of him pissing in the toilet or sitting in the bath drove Harry wild. 

Scorpius is sleeping soundly when Harry casts a _Finite_ , and the mops and brooms and dish cloths swoop away to their respective cupboards. He tip-toes over to them and pulls aside the blanket to watch Scorpius make his funny sleep faces.

“God, he is so beautiful,” Harry says, and then, less certainly, he asks if he can hold him for a little while.

“Careful,” Draco tells him when Harry fails to hold his head correctly. Merlin, he was sounding like his mother!

He stands and gestures for Harry to take his seat.

“You look tired,” Harry says, sitting down. “Go have a warm bath. I’ll change him and put him to bed.”

Draco is appalled to find that his instinct is to say no. No one could put Scorpius to bed but him. Harry will fuck something up, and Scorpius will cry, and then Draco will freak out and hex him.

“He’ll be okay, Draco. I don’t completely suck as a father. I know you think I do, but I don’t. I had practise with Teddy.”

It was true. Between the two of them, Harry had far more experience with babies, but then again, he hadn’t carried one around in his body for nine months, feeling every move he made – every heartbeat, or at least it had felt that way. Draco was still shocked that Scorpius wasn’t still a part of him.

 

Draco wanders into the bedroom wearing a towel wrapped around his head and the bathrobe he’d worn during his final weeks. This time, there are candles. He wants to cry. He’s exhausted and sore, and Scorpius would be waking again in a couple hours. He needed to sleep, not fuck.

Harry walks in the bedroom as Draco is changing into his pyjamas, and Draco squeaks with indignant alarm.

“Ever hear of privacy and giving a person some?”

Harry looks baffled. “You’re dressing. I’ve seen you naked a zillion times. Why are you being such a prude all of a sudden? You wouldn’t even let me in the bathroom to scrub your back like I always do. You don’t have to worry. I’m not lurking around waiting to pounce on you at the first opportunity.”

Really?

Draco gestures around to the candles. “I’m tired,” he says.

“I know,” Harry replies. “I’m not going to try to have sex with you; I just wanted to give you a backrub before you go to sleep.”

Draco smiles a sad fond smile. Harry is trying so hard to do the right thing. It’s just that he has no clue what the right thing is.

“All right. But just a little backrub. I really need some sleep.”

He settles into the nest of pillows Harry has created, and Harry straddles his bum. The oil is juniper and sandalwood (his favourite), and he groans in ecstasy when he feels Harry’s hands on his shoulders, kneading deep and working out the knots. For their first Christmas together, Harry had signed himself up for a course on massage. It was by far the best present Draco had ever received.

He sighs deeply and lets his eyes slip shut. The candles flicker; he can see their dancing light through his eyelids. Harry’s hands move down his back, his fingers working at relaxing the muscles attached to every vertebra all the way down to the tip of his tailbone. Harry even gives his bum a deep tissue massage without letting his fingers wander into his crack. The only thing that mars his enjoyment is the fear that his arse is as flabby and repulsive as his belly. When Harry attempts to move down to his thighs, Draco tells him his neck needs more attention.

He’s fallen half-asleep when he feels Harry get up and pull the duvet over him. Through squinted eyes, he watches Harry reach into his pants and adjust his hard on. Draco feels a surge of guilt. Every time Harry gave him a massage, Draco would reciprocate with a blow job, but he couldn’t think of anything he’d less rather do at that moment – except maybe fucking itself.

Harry’s bare chest is flushed and his breathing shallow. Draco listens to his feet pad their way to the toilet and then the click of the lock on the door. He knows Harry’s gone there to wank, and it alarms him that the realisation doesn’t make him jealous – or turned on. Instead it fills him with relief. He nestles deeper into the pillows, closes his eyes and falls asleep.

 

He wakes sometime later, feeling groggy and disoriented, when Harry crawls under the duvet holding Scorpius in his arms.

Draco is instantly awake.

“Potter! What on earth are you thinking? He’ll suffocate!”

“No, he won’t. I’ll lie on my back and hold him on my chest.”

“And then roll over and crush him!”

Harry sighs.

“I just thought it would be easier for you to feed him here rather than have to get up and go into the other room. Plus,” he added, “I want to hold him.”

Draco feels a surge of irrational jealousy, but whether he’s jealous of Harry or Scorpius, he can’t tell. 

“I won’t be able to sleep if he stays in bed with us.”

Harry doesn’t argue. He merely gets up and carries Scorpius back to the nursery. As guilty as he feels, Draco feels even more tired and falls back asleep in an instant.

 

Something elemental wakes him just before dawn, and he immediately panics. Robins were singing, and the sky was turning lavender. He’d slept through the whole night! What was wrong with Scorpius? Was he dead? Kidnapped by fairies? What? He struggles out of the pillows, grabs his robe and runs to the nursery . . .

. . . only to find Harry asleep in the chair with Scorpius in his arms.

Draco can’t help himself. He may have broken more limbs (other people’s, of course) in the history of professional Quidditch, but he is no match for the sight of Harry’s head tilted to the side, his glasses askew, and Scorpius’s tiny hand holding onto the collar of his t-shirt.

They were his. What had he ever done to deserve them?

He walks over and kisses Harry’s forehead, right on the scar, and Harry opens his eyes.

“Fell asleep,” he murmurs.

“I noticed. It looks like he’s finally slept through his first night.”

“Teddy used to sleep most soundly when he could feel someone’s heartbeat. Scorpius misses yours. Here, do you want him?”

Draco did. More than anything in the world. He holds out his arms as Harry hands their son to him and is embarrassed by sudden tears. He sits in the chair, and Harry kneels beside him on the floor.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy, and you might even hate me when I tell you what I’ve been thinking about all night . . .”

Draco’s sunny little world is darkened by apprehension. What now? He wants to change careers? He wants an open marriage? He wants to buy that dreadful cottage . . . What?

“I think we should have another.” 

Draco frowns at him. What was the berk talking about?

“Another what?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Another baby.”

Draco almost falls out of his chair.

“Go to sleep, Harry,” he says evenly and with remarkable calm under the circumstances. “You’re deranged from a lack of sleep . . . or sex, or who-knows-what.”

“I’m not deranged. The Healers told us that if we wanted another child, it would be easiest to conceive now, while the Potion is still active in your system.”

Draco doesn’t respond. He can’t. Words were not invented to express how horrified he is. In fact, he isn’t even sure he’d heard correctly.

“I’m sorry, but I thought I just heard you say that we should have another baby.”

“Er, yeah, you did. I mean, that’s what I said.”

Harry’s life is spared only by the fact that Scorpius wakes and starts fussing, thus distracting Draco from murdering him.

“If this is just a ploy to get me to have sex with you again, then I think I hate you right now,” he says, opening his robe slightly and helping Scorpius latch onto his nipple.

“I swear it’s not,” Harry says gently, soothingly, as though Draco is a rabid dog. “I just think Scorpius deserves a brother or sister. That’s all.”

“Oh. Hell. No. End of discussion. If you want another baby, then you’re going to have to be the one who carries it.”

Harry cringes, and Draco wants to kick him.

“I would,” he says unconvincingly, “except the Healers said that you getting pregnant again would make the most sense. They said you’re already stretched out . . . .”

Draco sees red. If it wasn’t for Scorpius, he’d get up, walk down the stairs, out the front door and not stop until there was at least a continent between his bum and Harry’s dick. “Stretched out.” Harry couldn’t have picked a worse word if he’d tried. He suddenly pictures his belly as a partially deflated balloon, all soft and disgusting like a rotting apple. Instinctively, he pulls Scorpius closer to cover any possible glimpse Harry might have of his naked body beneath his robe. That was it. “Stretched out.” Harry wasn’t going to see him without clothes on again until he got fit – not just as fit as he used to be, but even more fit. A veritable god of muscle and sinew and graceful lean lines. Like he used to be. Shit! He’d made the cover of Witch Weekly exactly seventeen times, and it was his centrefold that caused the “Men of Quidditch” calendar to sell out within a day of hitting the stores. He’d been gorgeous once. A long time ago. Before he’d turned into a jiggling blob of jelly with cracked nipples and a limp dick.

Stretched out.

He wants to cry and actually might have done so given his hormonally unbalanced state.

Scorpius begins to whimper. Obviously, he could sense Draco’s distress, and Draco fights to calm himself and clear his mind. But it’s easier said than done.

He looks Harry straight in his stupid green eyes. “I am not getting pregnant again,” he says. “Now or ever. Deal with it, Potter.”

 

* * * * 

 

He’d known immediately when he’d conceived. True, his mother said it was impossible, and when he’d mentioned it to the Healer, she’d smiled indulgently, but he’d known. Instantly.

It was the only time in a long while that they’d made love spontaneously and hadn’t engaged in their post-sex ritual of bum propping and finger crossing.

Ah, the irony. Scorpius would appreciate it when he was older. Or not. Actually, probably not. No kid wants to think of their parents fucking.

It’d been raining. The kind of rain that breaks a heat wave and makes you feel like you can breathe again after weeks of suffocating in a stew of humidity. They’d been walking to a party when the first drops began to fall and decided not to cast an _Impervius_. It’d felt like heaven – the rain on his face and Harry’s hand in his. He’d stopped suddenly, and Harry had looked back questioningly. His fringe was sticking to his forehead and there were drops on his glasses. His t-shirt clung to his skin, and Draco had been able to see his peaked nipples and even the shallow indentation of his navel. He’d stepped forward and seized Harry’s shoulders, pulling him into a kiss. Harry had moaned, and before they knew it, they were in an alley with Harry’s jeans around his knees and his bare thighs squeezing Harry’s hips as tight as they could.

They’d never fucked up against a wall before. Despite what stories and movies might lead one to believe, it was neither comfortable nor convenient. It’d taken a number of tries before Harry had been able to enter him, and even then, he couldn’t go very deep and kept slipping out. Which was what made it the hottest sex Draco had ever had. They were schoolboys, fumbling in a broom closet, trying to figure out how, exactly, cocks get into arseholes. Every time that Harry managed to get inside of him, he’d struggled to sink down onto his cock without sliding out of Harry’s arms and onto the cobblestones.

“Fuck, you’re heavy,” Harry had said, but then he’d found Draco’s entrance and his voice broke around a groan. He’d practically crushed Draco’s back against the wall, he started fucking him so hard, and all the while the rain poured down on them. He’d come first, and Harry had had to struggle to stay inside him as his body’s spasms tried to push him out.

“Oh, sweet God,” Harry had gasped against his neck, thrusting savagely. “Sweet fucking God.” He’d been completely lost. Undone. In one final fierce thrust, he’d found himself balls deep and came with a long shuddering groan.

That’s when Scorpius was conceived. Draco had felt it. A twinge of magic deep in his belly as Harry’s cock pulsed inside him. Some of Harry’s come slipped out of him when Harry pulled out, but it hadn’t mattered. Draco had known he was already pregnant. It’d been terrifying and wildly sexy at the same time. All that evening, he was in a daze, barely acknowledging people when they tried to talk to him. He could feel the magic doing what it needed to do.

“Wine or beer?” Harry had asked on his way to the bar, and Draco had said neither. Harry had frowned. Draco liked to get tipsy at parties.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well?”

He’d shaken his head and grinned from ear to ear.

“I feel fine,” he’d said. “It’s just that I’m pregnant, and I don’t think our baby wants a gin and tonic.”

Harry had almost fallen over, and Draco grabbed his hand. When he’d pulled Harry into his arms, he’d felt Harry’s whole body shaking.

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry whispered fiercely, and they’d run back to their flat, getting soaked and laughing like lunatics. When they finally closed their door on the world, Harry had dropped to his knees, shoved up Draco’s shirt and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his belly. He’d never asked how Draco had known. He’d just believed.

 

* * * *

 

Harry leaves for work early, kissing Scorpius where he lies against Draco’s chest, but not Draco himself.

Draco tries to convince himself he doesn’t care.

Scorpius grouses and kicks his little legs when Draco tries to dress him. When he hands Scorpius to his mother, it’s with a feeling of “good riddance.” But close after the relief followed guilt and then, even worse, separation anxiety.

“I think he’s still hungry,” he says, reaching out to take him back.

“I thought you said he’d fed right before you Flooed here.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still hungry.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“I won’t wake him; he knows how to eat in his sleep.”

“You’re all kitted out.”

“It’s not that hard to get out of Quidditch gear.”

“Speaking of which: Draco, you need to lose some weight.”

Draco glares at her.

“My weight is none of your business.”

His mother looks at him with an arched eyebrow. It’s enough to convey her belief that anything involving Draco was her business.

“Harry keeps making enormous meals and buying me chocolates and pastries and what-not.”

“I always knew he’d try to kill you one day.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Scorpius shifts in his mother’s arms and makes a soft cooing sound.

“Give him back.”

“Go to your ludicrous so-called ‘job.’”

“I can be late. Mother, he’s asking for me.”

“No, he’s not; he’s having a bowel movement.”

His aunt laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her tea.

“It’s alright, Draco,” she says. “You’ll only be apart for a few hours. It’s good for you. You hover more than any witch I’ve ever known.”

Draco scowls and reluctantly turns to leave.

 

This day is the same as the last. He suffers through the morning drills, sweating like a pig and unable to finish the laps around the pitch. But once he’s in the air, he feels much better.

“Your form’s a little off,” Coach Devlin yells up at him. “But basically you’re looking good.”

He grins to himself and weaves figure eights around the goal posts. It’s going to be okay after all. He’ll play on Saturday, and everything will be fine. 

He spots the Snitch within minutes of its release and catches it easily. Coach Devlin lets out a “whoop!”

“There’s my star Seeker,” he shouts. “You’re going to kick Racim’s arse!”

Adrien Racim was the second best Seeker in the world, and Draco had actually (and humiliatingly) lost to him once. The two teams had played late into the night, and everyone was exhausted. Except for Draco and Racim. They’d flown as though they were invincible, their _Lumoses_ lit as bright as possible – both to see the Snitch and to blind each other when the opportunity presented itself.

They’d spotted the Snitch in exactly the same instant and flown for it like hawks. It’d become physical quickly, and Draco had got in several blows before Racim elbowed him in the face, breaking his nose. The next thing he knew, he was falling through darkness and seeing Harry’s face as though in a dream. That was when he’d known he was going to die. The only wizard strong enough to catch him at this late stage of a fall was Harry, and Draco was sure he must’ve gone home at some point earlier in the evening.

Except Harry hadn’t gone home, and he’d stopped Draco’s fall within inches of the ground with a bellowed _Decido Subsisto!_ from the stands. And then he’d run onto the pitch ignoring the yells and whistles of both players and referees. Clearly, Racim hadn’t caught the Snitch yet, and when he’d realised the match wasn’t over, Draco had struggled in Harry’s arms. He’d eventually had to punch Harry in the face, but by then Racim had caught the Snitch.

“Stopping my fall was enough, you bloody idiot!” Draco had raged at him once they were home. “Thanks for losing the match for us!”

Harry hadn’t said anything. He’d simply put on his coat and left. Draco hadn’t seen him again for a week. It’d been the worst week of his life, which was saying something, and when Harry had walked through the door one evening as though he’d only been at work for a day, Draco had literally wept with relief. They’d made love that night, long and tenderly, and Draco had apologised a dozen times. Even then it hadn’t felt like enough.

“Looking good, Malfoy,” says Crawford as Draco flies by. 

Draco grins at him. He feels good, and the late spring air is brisk and refreshing. _This_ is why he did what he does. His mother would never understand, but Harry did, and that was what mattered.

He catches the Snitch a second time. It gleams like a star in his glove. He’s elated and breathless, but in a good healthy way.

“That – that right there – is why you’re the best Seeker in the world,” says his coach when he lands on the grass. “You make it look effortless. Still, you really should lose a few pounds.”

Draco’s mood immediately goes from elated to shit.

“I don’t know how someone with ‘life-threatening’ food poisoning manages to gain weight.”

Draco doesn’t respond, but he knows his flushed face advertises his humiliation better than words ever could.

“Never mind,” says his coach, slapping him on the back. “After the match this weekend, I’ll set you up with the best personal trainer in London. He’ll have you fit again in no time.”

Draco cringes. He’d never needed anyone’s assistance before. Plus, the last thing in the world he wanted was some fit bloke watching him huff and strain with exercises he used to be able to do without breaking a sweat.

Fuck.

“Great,” he says. “Thanks for the chance to feel like a fat loser.”

Coach Devlin puts an arm around his shoulders.

“You’ll be in great shape by the World Cup next summer, and that’s what _really_ matters.”

Not if Harry has his way. If he does, then Draco would probably be so pregnant by then, he’d be unable to see his feet, let alone fly a broom.

He smiles wanly. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what really matters.”

 

* * * *

 

During his final month, Draco had actually waddled. On the spectrum of indignities, it’d been a new low.

“I don’t know what’s up with you, but you look like a giant duck with piles,” Blaise had said one evening at a party he and Harry had been unable to avoid. “Did a spell go wrong or something?”

Draco had smiled humourlessly. “I injured my knee at practise.”

“I thought you weren’t flying these days. What’d you do? Trip over a Quaffle?”

“Very funny.”

“What do giant ducks with piles drink? I’ll get you something from the bar out of sheer pity.”

Draco had sighed. What wouldn’t he give for a good strong martini?

“Just a blackcurrant with soda is fine.”

“Jesus, Malfoy. What’s wrong with you? Seriously. You’ve been so odd lately.”

“Well, I’m flattered you asked,” Draco had said with a completely straight face. “Actually I’m eight and a half months pregnant, my ankles are swollen, and I can’t drink alcohol or eat prawns.”

Blaise had nearly fallen over he’d laughed so hard.

“Good one,” he’d said wiping his eyes with a cocktail napkin. “Oh God, wait till I tell Pansy. Draco Malfoy of all people is pregnant.”

“I’m quite serious,” Draco had said. “I’m going to be giving birth to a baby boy in about three weeks.”

Blaise had asked a passing waiter for another cocktail napkin.

“Only really, really _gay_ wizards get pregnant. You’ve got a three-day beard going and scars on your knuckles from punching your opponents in the face. You’re a fucking man among men, Draco.”

He’d laughed at that and clinked Blaise’s glass with his in recognition of the compliment.

“Well, be that as it may, I’m still hugely pregnant and barely able to walk up a flight of stairs.”

“And I’ve got a bridge over the River Thames to sell you,” Blaise had said, slapping him on the back and walking away convulsed with laughter.

Draco had merely shrugged and gone to look for Harry.

 

* * * *

 

Harry’s mouth is warm; he swallows around Draco’s cock, trying to coax it into hardness. Draco’s eyes start to drift shut. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good; it just doesn’t feel good in a sexual way. It’d feel even better if Harry was rubbing his feet instead of his prostate. 

He snaps back into consciousness when Harry turns him over, hoists him onto his knees and positions himself behind Draco’s arse. But this time, Harry’s erection wilts before he can even breech Draco’s body.

Draco knows he shouldn’t feel relieved, but all he can think is “thank God.”

Harry rolls off him and lies on his back, silently staring up at the ceiling. Draco knows he’s staring and not sleeping, because his eyes shine in the lights from outside.

He wants to say “It’s okay” or “I love you,” but the words that come out of his mouth are “Now you know what it feels like.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t turn you on,” Harry says, his voice a monotone.

He’s being a baby, and Draco tells him so.

“You used to get hard before I even touched you. You used to want me.”

Draco yawns a full body stretching yawn. 

“Stop wallowing in self-pity.”

“There’s no room in your heart except for Scorpius.”

His voice sounds aggrieved, and Draco’s temper immediately flares.

“He’s a baby. He needs me,” he snarls.

“I need you, too.”

Christ, and so does Coach Devlin.

“Get in line, Potter.”

“I’m trying to help. You won’t let me.”

Draco wants to tell him that he’s _not_ helping when he offers to take Scorpius away and shoos him upstairs to take a bath. Scorpius should be in the tub with him so Draco can gently wash his face and clean the whorls of his tiny ears.

His own baths last no longer than it takes to soap and rinse and wash his hair. In other words, three minutes, after which he’s running downstairs, holding out his arms to take Scorpius away from Harry.

“Is he okay?” he asks the second he comes back downstairs. “Here, give him to me.”

And Harry always does, no matter how reluctantly.

“He’s my baby, too,” Harry says, still staring at the ceiling.

“You didn’t carry him in your body for nine months. All you had to do was shoot your load.”

Harry flinches as though Draco has just hit him with a hex. Draco had spat on sacred ground. They’d always remembered that night with a sense of awe.

“Draco,” he says. “Please. We can’t go on like this . . .”

“Or what? You’ll go fuck that new recruit – the one who made _Witch Weekly_ last month?”

Harry inhales sharply, and Draco’s heart begins to pound.

“You already have, haven’t you?”

“No!” Harry nearly shouts.

“But you’ve thought about it.”

Harry’s silent for a long time.

“You have, haven’t you? Is he even gay?”

Harry remains silent.

“He is. Have you kissed him?”

“No. He tried to kiss me, but I pushed him away.”

“But I’ll bet it turned you on. Young, fit, handsome. Tell me, Harry. Did your dick get hard?”

Harry is silent.

“Did you wank in a toilet stall?”

Harry is silent.

“Just so you know, I’m taking your silence for ‘yes’.” 

Harry is still silent.

At last he says “I don’t want to have sex with him, but it’s nice to know that someone finds me desirable. And, yes, I did get an erection, and, yes, I did get off in the toilet. . . .”

Draco feels the pain like a razor slash to his heart. “Well, bully for you.”

“ . . . and I thought about _you_ the whole time. About you touching me, _wanting_ me. You can’t really believe I’d get off to thoughts of somebody else when all I want is you? I’m mad for you, Draco. In case you hadn’t realised it.”

Draco pulls the blankets tighter. Harry wouldn’t be so mad for him if he saw him naked in the light. (He’d insisted on a complete darkness charm every night Harry had wanted to have sex.) It was as though he hadn’t even given birth – he looked _that_ fat.

“I want to hold you,” Harry says, turning to lie on his side. “If you won’t let me make love to you, then at least give me that.”

“Well, I have to use the toilet,” Draco says bounding out of bed before Harry can touch him. When he gets in the loo, he locks the door and waits there until he hears Scorpius cry.

 

The night before the appointment at which they knew Draco would be told to avoid “being intimate” with Harry until after the birth, they’d made love for hours and in every position they could think of. Harry kept insisting that Draco ride him – he’d loved the taut skin of his swollen belly, which even Draco had thought was rather sexy at the time. Having a baby in your belly was infinitely preferable to being just plain old fat.

They’d been perfectly attuned to each other. Harry had spent ages rimming him because he knew that was Draco’s favourite thing. As he’d slowly relaxed, Harry had been able to shove in his tongue in as far as he could, and he’d come that way, just from Harry’s agile tongue. He’d never done that before, although he’d come close. But that night, he fell over the edge, and Harry had replaced his tongue with his finger to savour the spasms of his orgasm. Then he’d penetrated Draco with one long thrust and fucked him with abandon. 

Draco had been unable to get enough of the feeling of Harry’s cock inside him, and they’d cast a charm that kept Harry hard even after he’d come. Draco had felt so greedy for him – greedy for the hard thrusts that buried Harry to his balls, and then greedy for the fast shallow thrusts that pounded his prostate. He’d spread himself open as wide as he could, urging Harry on with his thighs.

Harry had been delirious with need, saying things in a lust-soaked voice that’d enflamed Draco even more. The sheet beneath his bum was soaked with come and lube. But all the while – even when he was coming undone – Harry was careful of Draco’s seven-month swollen belly and their baby inside. His caution had turned Draco on even more. This was the two of them. This was their creation, their future. After they’d fucked each other to exhaustion, Harry dotted Draco’s belly with kisses and gasped when he felt the baby kick.

“I hope we didn’t disturb him too much.” 

Draco had thought they didn’t, but then again, there’d been a strange sensation when Harry had taken him from behind and come deep inside his body. But the sensation went away when Harry turned him over and sucked his cock down his throat. After that, the only sensation he’d felt was his loins tightening behind an orgasm that took his breath away for so long he’d seen dark spots dance before his eyes.

Sure enough, as they’d predicted, the next morning the Healer told them they needed to stop having penetrative sex, and worse, that Draco should avoid coming at all. Apparently the changes his body went through up to and during orgasm carried a substantial risk of injuring the baby. 

Draco remembered the strange sensation he’d felt the last time they’d had sex, and it terrified him to think that they may have come within inches of hurting their son.

That was a little more than three months ago. He hadn’t come since. And now, even worse, he couldn’t imagine coming at all.

 

* * * *

 

Harry is very quiet, but the breakfast he’s frying fills the silence and speaks of a tentative peace.

Draco walks down the stairs, rubbing Scorpius’s back as he burps and burbles. Stupidly, Harry reaches out his arms.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Draco says, but Harry glares at him and takes Scorpius. He’s barely started rubbing his back when Scorpius hiccups and spits up on his Auror robe.

Draco’s laughs at him and points to the towel draped over his shoulder.

“Did you think I wear this around all the time because it’s the newest fashion?” He takes Scorpius back and casts a wandless _Tergeo_.

“I may be late tonight,” is all Harry says in response. “I thought I’d just let you know, not that you’d even notice if I was here or not. Or care.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Still, the thought of _why_ Harry might be late ties his stomach in knots.

“You’re a bigger baby than Scorpius,” he says feigning disinterest and accepting the mug Harry hands him without looking at him. “By the way, Mother and Auntie are coming here this morning. Something about workmen at the Manor.”

Harry usually laughs at Draco’s affectation, but not this morning. He silently fills a plate with eggs and rashers and buttered toast and drops it unceremoniously at the place at the table where Draco always sits.

“You really _are_ trying to kill me,” Draco says, staring at the delicious sizzling heap of greasy food. “Mother’s always said you would one day.”

He’s babbling. Harry’s silence is distressing. “Talk to me,” he wants to plead, but of course he doesn’t.

“How late is late?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you at least fire call?”

“If I can.”

He feels increasingly desperate. He swallows and says the hardest and scariest thing he’s said in weeks.

“Do you want to give Scorpius his bath this morning?”

Harry turns to look at him for the first time, his eyes wide as though Draco has just said he’d stolen the crown jewels for him.

“Really?”

Draco swallows again, his heartbeat lurching unpleasantly. “Yeah, but don’t put more than two inches of water in his tub. And use one of the soft clothes – the one with the lambs on it, not the daisies. Oh, and make sure the water’s not too hot. His skin is extremely sensitive. And try to keep water out of his eyes – make sure you use the baby shampoo and . . . .”

“Darling. Shut up.”

How had his mother arrived without him hearing the Floo?

“You are impossible, Draco. That man, no matter how ill-groomed he may be, is your child’s other father. He can bathe his son without being given exhaustive instructions.”

Harry’s eyes open even wider at Draco’s mother’s intervention. She notices his expression.

“Don’t count on me coming to your rescue again,” she says with a sniff. “Now go upstairs and wash the child before my son changes his mind.”

Harry smiles his first smile of the day and takes Scorpius upstairs.

“You’re not having sex with him, are you?”

Draco nearly falls out of his chair.

“Cissy, that was hardly discreet,” says his aunt, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

“I really don’t think that’s any of your business, Mother!”

“Let’s not start with this silly ‘not my business’ nonsense again. It’s foolish. You’re being naïve, Draco. This is the time a smart witch knows her husband will stray if she’s not careful. You have eyes only for Scorpius. That man must feel like a potted plant.”

“‘That man,’ I’m assuming is Harry?” he asks rather nastily. “And by the way, last I checked, which was this morning when I took a piss, I was a wizard not a witch.”

“Don’t get cheeky.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Harry would never ‘stray’ like some common bloke. He’s _Harry_ , for God’s sake.”

His aunt smiles but nonetheless repeats her sister’s sentiments.

“You’re treating Harry as though he’s an annoyance rather than a partner. You should know he was absolutely wonderful with Teddy.”

“Well, Scorpius isn’t Teddy.”

His mother waves a hand at him dismissively. “You’re being a frightful bore,” she says. “Please try to expand your repertoire of conversation topics.”

Draco goggles at her, but is distracted before he can respond by a loud splash and then a thud. He dashes up the stairs so fast that he slips on the runner.

“Harry!” he shouts. “What. Are. You. Doing? I _knew_ I shouldn’t have let you bathe him! Is he drowned? Fuck! I swear to God . . . If he’s hit his head . . . I’ll fucking _kill_ you if anything’s happened to him!”

He tears around the corner and bursts into the bathroom. The door slams against the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster.

Harry is drying Scorpius and putting lotion on his tummy. It’s clear he’d accidentally knocked the little tub off the counter after he’d removed Scorpius. He looks up, surprised, when he notices Draco panting and wild-eyed in the doorway.

Scorpius goes from a toothless smile to a face-scrunching scream, while Harry’s expression goes from startled to furious just as quickly. Draco sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Draco,” he says. “Go away.”

Draco hears footsteps on the stairs, and soon his aunt is behind him, her hand resting on his back, just between his shoulder blades so that Harry can’t see.

“Draco,” she says gently. “Go back downstairs. I’ll stay up here and help Harry dress him.”

In the hall, his mother is not smiling. She hands him his cloak.

“Go to practise, Draco,” she says and escorts him with an ungentle hand to the door, opens it, shoves him out, and then closes it with far more force than necessary. Draco finds himself staring at the knocker wondering what the hell just happened.

 

He’s furious at himself and his flying shows it.

“Brilliant!” Coach Devlin yells up at him. “Fly like that on Saturday, and Racim won’t have a prayer!”

“You’re poetry in motion,” shouts Hamilton with a wink as she flies by. Draco grins and shakes his head.

“Only when you’re around, my angel,” he calls after her.

How had he managed to be away from his broom for nearly a year? In the sky – with the pitch below him an egg-shaped bit of green – everything felt sane again. The wind whips his hair around his face, and he leans into a burst of speed. Up here, he manages to forget that anything in his life has changed. He is fit and strong and not a fat hormone-crazed lunatic. He can almost pretend that after practise he’ll shower in the locker room, dress in jeans and a sick-free shirt, go with Harry to the pub, get drunk and then go home to fuck and fall asleep in tangled sheets and Harry’s arms.

He falls into a spiral. True he’s winded and his muscles ache, but he hasn’t lost his nerve. He misses the ground by mere inches, getting grass stains on his knees.

“Keep flying like that,” says Coach Devlin when he lands, “and you won’t need a personal trainer. Merlin, Malfoy! The sheer strength it takes to make that move! For a second there, I thought you were going to leave Harry a widower.”

Draco’s grin falters, and he mounts his broom again before his coach can notice his sudden pallor. Merlin! How could it have not occurred to him that he is a parent who should _definitely_ not get himself killed? What would happen to Scorpius?

Suddenly, he feels terrified. The ground is so far away, and the wind feels too cold and brisk. Miles from him, Scorpius was sleeping under the blanket he and Harry had bought days before he was born. It was charmed to hum lullabies . . .

Draco clutches his broom, his heart pounding.

“What’s wrong up there?” Coach Devlin yells. “You look wobbly all of a sudden! Maybe you should have a rest! You’ve been flying for four hours straight!”

_Four hours???_ He’d only given his mother and aunt enough milk to last until noon! Draco lands as quickly as he can.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he starts gathering his things and throwing them in his bag. “Forgot an important appointment. Gotta go!”

“See you tomorrow then,” his coach yells after him. “Bright and early, so you can warm up before the match. Get your sleep, Malfoy. Remember, we’re counting on you.”

Draco feels sick. Fuck the team! His _baby_ is counting on him!

“Coach,” he says. “I need to tell you something. I didn’t have food poisoning. I was preg . . .”

But his confession is interrupted by Pendleton screaming in pain. Coach Devlin drops everything and runs out onto the pitch shouting for the team’s mediwitch.

Draco takes advantage of the distraction and Apparates home so fast he very nearly splinches himself.

* * * *

 

Four months into the pregnancy, he and Harry had had a vicious row. Harry was hovering and anxious and unwilling to let Draco out of his sight. It was driving Draco insane. 

They’d yelled and broken plates and alarmed the neighbours (again), but in the end, he was kneeling on the floor, holding Harry in his arms.

“Potter,” he’d said. He would’ve added “love” but that just wasn’t something he did. “What’re you so afraid of?”

Harry had buried his face against Draco’s neck.

“Losing you,” he’d said, his voice catching on the words.

“I’m going to be okay,” Draco had replied. “Remember? You even told me so yourself.”

“I _know_ you’re going to be okay, and I _know_ the baby will be too. But I can already feel you slipping away.”

Draco hadn’t known what on earth he was talking about.

“There’ll be no room for me. It’ll just be the two of you.”

Draco frowned. “You can’t really be saying that you’re jealous of our unborn child.”

“I don’t know what I feel; all I know is that you seem distant and unreachable. Even when we make love, I feel you holding back. You don’t come from me being inside you anymore.”

Draco had inhaled sharply. Harry was being silly, but at the same time, he was right. It was stupid beyond words, but Draco suddenly realised his body – especially the _inside_ of his body – now belonged to their baby. Harry was an intruder.

“It won’t always be like that.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry said suddenly. “I need to know we’re okay.”

Draco had pulled back and stared at him. Harry didn’t bottom. He didn’t like it. They’d only tried it a couple times, and Harry hadn’t come or even got hard. He’d claimed he was too self-conscious. He didn’t like anyone poking around his arsehole, even if it meant he got his prostate rubbed. He just didn’t like it.

“You’re not serious.”

“I _am_ serious.”

Despite their recent row and the sheer weirdness of Harry’s request, Draco felt his cock twitch. Unlike Harry, he loved to bottom, but that didn’t mean he didn’t also love to top.

“Okay,” he’d said tentatively and kissed Harry deeply. He was so excited he could hardly breathe.

They’d found themselves undressed and in bed in a matter of minutes.

“Do you want me?” Harry had asked. It was a stupid question, and Draco told him so.

He’d instructed Harry to get on his knees and forearms and then tried to pry his arse open, but it was impossible. Harry was using his considerable strength to keep them clenched tight.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he’d said with fond exasperation. “Relax. I know what an arsehole looks like. You don’t need to hide yours.”

Slowly, by tiny increments, Harry had let Draco spread him open and when he’d finally succeeded in exposing Harry’s ridiculously (but endearingly) bashful hole, he’d buried his face between Harry’s arse cheeks and licked him gently.

“Relax,” he said again when he pulled back and Harry returned to clenching his arse cheeks. “Let your body open to me. You’re beautiful. Don’t be ashamed.”

Slowly but surely, Harry had allowed himself to open to the point where Draco could insert his tongue, and once he was fully open, Draco slicked his finger with lube and slowly slid it into Harry’s body.

Harry had been so tense that it’d actually been difficult to move his finger, and Draco’s belly (pregnant though it was) clenched deliciously at the mere thought of being buried in that tight shy opening.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

Harry’s skin glistened with sweat, and his entire body undulated with Draco’s slow probing. When he finally found Harry’s prostate, Harry dropped his face into the pillows and groaned.

He was good at this – very good. Harry was the only lover he’d ever bottomed with. Ever. He was an accomplished top, but there’d been something about Harry – something about their relationship – that’d been different. They’d fucked on their second date, and Draco had offered himself up without even thinking twice.

It’d taken nearly an hour of slow gentle opening, but finally Harry was ready. Again, Draco asked him if he was sure he wanted to continue, and again he’d said yes.

Draco braced himself. It was a little awkward because he was starting to show his pregnancy, but as soon as he’d pressed the head of his cock into Harry’s opening, he’d given himself over to instinct, fucking him with sure, deep strokes.

It felt so good that tears literally sprang to his eyes. He’d felt a wave of tenderness crash over him. Harry trusted him. Completely.

He’d come too quickly, and Harry was only half hard, but it’d been well worth it. Harry was soothed, and Draco’s body felt more relaxed than it did when he bottomed. For the first time in months, his back didn’t ache. He’d told Harry to roll over and then sucked him to orgasm. It was something else he rarely had the opportunity to do, and he revelled in Harry’s jerking thrusts and the flood of come that filled his mouth.

He’d pulled back and knelt between Harry’s spread legs, and then Harry had asked the stupidest question Draco had ever heard.

“Will you still love me?”

* * * *

 

Despite it being suppertime, Harry isn’t there. The house seems unnaturally quiet, and all Draco can hear is Scorpius suckling hungrily. He hadn’t even changed before he’d snatched Scorpius out of his mother’s arms and shoved up his sweaty jersey. 

His mother was clearly still annoyed with him. She’d stepped into the Floo immediately upon relinquishing her grandson. His aunt had already left to do some shopping.

He and Scorpius are alone. It should be heaven, but it isn’t. His ears strain to hear the Floo. He’d say he’s sorry the second Harry finished brushing off the ashes.

But damn. He’d have to tell Harry about the match. He couldn’t keep it a secret. Especially now. Harry would never forgive him.

He knows it’s true. He really _is_ treating Harry like shit. Even if he can’t get it up, he should at least try to pleasure Harry. It wouldn’t kill him to give Harry a blowjob. And fuck his stupid pride. It wasn’t as though Harry would leave him because he’d gained some weight . . .

. . . He wakes when he feels Scorpius wriggle in his arms. A quick glance at the clock tells him that it’s half past ten.

Harry has never been so late before – at least not without fire calling.

_Fuck._

He stands up shakily and goes upstairs to change out of his Quidditch uniform and into his stupid magically expanded jeans and jumper. Scorpius is less easy. He cries and squirms when Draco tries to dress him in a warmer outfit and then wails when Draco pulls on the little hood with fox ears sticking off the top. 

For reasons he doesn’t want to admit to himself, Draco doesn’t fire call before he steps into the Floo with Scorpius in his arms, and his worse fears are confirmed when he arrives in Harry’s office to find him alone with What’s-his-fucking-name. They’re standing close together, their elbows and hips touching, as they examine a map. There’s an ease to their contact, a certain physical comfort that spoke clearly of intimacy. 

Harry looks up startled when he hears the whoosh of the Floo and quickly moves away from his companion.

He looks flushed . . . and kissed.

“Draco!” he exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

But Draco doesn’t have time for him. He shakes his wand out of his sleeve. Clutching it in one hand and Scorpius with the other, he advances on What’s-his-face, who looks gratifyingly alarmed.

“Draco,” Harry says with forced calm. “Lower your wand.” Harry knows him . . . and what he’s capable of.

What’s-his-name backs away until he hits a chair.

“Do not _ever_ try to touch him again,” Draco says, coiled hatred in his voice. “Because I _will_ kill you. Believe me. I’ve killed before.” It was a reference to the battles he’d fought by Harry’s side after he and his mother had defected.

The man stares at him, his eyes wide, but before Draco can cast the hex on his tongue, What’s-his-name draws his wand and shouts “ _Stupefy_!”

A hastily cast protective shield blocks the spell. Harry has nothing in his hands. He’d cast it wandlessly – a feat that was almost impossible. What’s-his-name stumbles backward and falls on his arse.

Harry is shaking when he turns to him, and his voice quavers with emotion.

“You just cast a stunning spell at my husband and my six-week old son,” he says with a deadly calm that Draco knows all too well. “Leave. We will discuss this on Monday.”

What’s-his-name looks heartbroken. “Harry, I can’t just go . . . you said . . . we were . . going to . . .”

The only thing that keeps Draco from casting an _Avada Kedavra_ is the shield that’s clearly protecting What’s-his-name from Draco as much as – or even more than – it was protecting Draco from him.

“Do not _ever_ call my husband ‘Harry’ again.” Draco spits out the words like a curse. “Believe me, you haven’t earned it even if he really _was_ on the verge of fucking you. He’s ‘Senior Auror Potter’ to you even when he’s got his cock shoved up your arse.”

“He doesn’t love you anymore! You don’t care for him the way I do!”

Draco takes the hit straight to the heart. What’s-his-name’s words are far more painful than any spell he could cast. Scorpius starts to cry, and humiliatingly, Draco’s own eyes fill with tears. Harry sees them and groans in what could only be interpreted as pain.

“Leave now,” he says again, but his eyes never leave Draco’s. “I won’t ask a third time.”

To Draco’s vast relief, the fucker finally goes. But not without a pleading, longing look at Harry.

They are silent even after the door closes. Only Scorpius advertises his discomfort.

“I’m going to the Manor,” Draco says at last.

“Draco, listen to me. I was _not_ going to fuck him . . .”

Draco takes a deep breath. “But you were intimate enough with him to discuss our marriage.”

“I didn’t ‘discuss our marriage.’ I had a little too much to drink and said a couple stupid things.”

Draco nods.

“Draco, please. . . . You know I’d never cheat on you!”

Draco merely nods again, knowing the worse thing he can do to Harry is to do nothing at all.

“Can we at least go home before we discuss this?”

Draco wraps Scorpius tighter in his blanket and kisses the top of his head as though Harry wasn’t even in the room.

“I just said some stupid things, and then he kissed me, and I pushed him away – but not as quickly as I should have. I’m sorry.”

Draco’s vision goes black for an instant. “So you told him you didn’t love me anymore and then snogged him? I’m going to the Manor,” he says again. “And you’d better believe I’m taking Scorpius with me.”

Harry swallows hard. “I didn’t want to kiss him. It wasn’t out of desire. If anything it was out of anger. You’ve hurt me, Draco. More than you will ever know.”

All Draco can hear is that Harry kissed someone else. Harry didn’t know what “hurt” was. Yet.

“I’m going to the Manor,” he says again. “I’m taking Scorpius, and while I’m gone, I want you to pack your things and move out of my flat.”

Harry looks utterly shocked. His mouth opens but no words come out.

“And what’s more, I’m playing a match tomorrow. I don’t want you there. If I see you there, I’ll be even more furious than I am now . . .”

Harry sits down hard in the chair behind his desk.

“You’re _what_?”

“I’m playing a match tomorrow. What are you? Deaf?”

He’s being cruel. He _knows_ he’s being cruel, but he can’t stop himself. His heart feels like it’s being ripped to shreds.

“Draco, please! You can’t play. You’re not ready to play a match . . .”

“I think I know what I’m ready for and what I’m not.”

“Christ, Draco! I didn’t fuck him! I didn’t want to fuck him! I was stupid! I never intended to have you find out! I never meant to hurt you!”

Poor stupid Harry. He just kept digging himself a deeper and deeper hole.

“So you were going to lie to me.”

“No, that’s not what I mean . . .”

“What you mean, Potter, is that you’re too much of a slut to keep it in your pants for a few months while I recover . . .”

“I. Didn’t. Fuck. Him! I didn’t even touch him or let him touch me! We kissed. Nothing more!”

Harry reaches out to touch him – to touch _them_. But Draco pulls away, wounded and frightened. They’d never fought like this before. He pulls Scorpius closer against his chest and turns to walk to the Floo, keeping his hand on Harry’s desk so he wouldn’t fall. He’s shaking violently.

“We’ll discuss the necessary arrangements tomorrow after the match,” he says as calmly as he can and steps into the hearth. “Good-bye.”

The last thing he hears before the whoosh of the Floo drowns him out is Harry practically screaming his name. He emerges from his mother’s hearth feeling ill and clutching a kicking wailing infant.

How had his life come to this?

He must’ve spoken aloud because suddenly his mother’s there, lifting Scorpius from his arms. Scorpius has been crying so hard and for so long that his little body is soaked with sweat.

“I should never have agreed to have that baby,” he chokes. “Everything went wrong because of . . .”

His mother was walking away toward the sofa when she turns on him with a dangerous look in her eyes.

“If you even _think_ about blaming this innocent little boy, I _will_ hex you!”

Draco steps back, away from the gust of her fury.

“You’re the one who’s ruining your life, Draco, not Scorpius and not even your bloody husband. You seem intent on tearing everything you have apart . . .”

“He kissed someone else!”

“And that’s supposed to surprise me?”

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to.

“But he kissed . . .” He feels hysterical. Out of control. _His_ Harry had kissed another man.

Before he realises what he’s about to do, he punches the mirrored wall. When he draws back his hand, he sees that it’s bleeding. He punches the mirror again with his other hand just for the sake of symmetry. 

Scorpius is bawling and screaming.

To his horror, he suddenly understands how people can shake their infants to death. He stumbles backward, blood trickling down his fingers.

“Don’t let me have him,” he says, horrified at himself. “Don’t let me touch him. I’m not safe . . .”

“You most certainly are not, Draco,” his mother replies icily. “I want you to Floo home right now. You’ll kill yourself if you touch Scorpius in anger. I won’t survive losing both my son and my grandson.”

“I . . . I . . . if Harry comes here . . .”

“If Harry comes here, I’ll give him his son. But I won’t give him to you. So don’t even beg. You’ve forfeited your right to Scorpius until further notice.”

 

They had an open-door policy, which meant neither locked the other out of the bathroom (unless absolutely necessary). Harry had never taken advantage of the policy as much as he had when Draco was pregnant. While Draco shaved, Harry would sit on the edge of the bath watching him as though he was doing some sort of fascinating Transfiguration. Or while Draco was combing his hair, Harry would stand behind him with his hands cradling his belly.

Often, their regular morning grooming turned into awkward shags on the bathroom floor.

Even when they were dressed and out in public, Harry had wanted to touch him constantly, which meant they did a lot of hugging. Harry loved to feel Draco’s swollen belly pressed up against him. It was alternately sweet and irritating depending on where they were and what they were doing.

They’d told nobody, except his mother and aunt. Even their closest friends thought they’d adopted Scorpius, and they seemed to believe the ruse despite the fact that Scorpius looked like a little clone of Draco. Harry had wanted to tell the world about the pregnancy, but Draco insisted on keeping it a secret. Despite Harry’s worship of his changing body, the real truth was that Draco had been ashamed.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry told him all the time. “You shine.”

But all Draco could hear was “Blah blah blah . . .You’re such a girl, Malfoy. Perhaps you’d like a pink maternity robe with frills and teddy bears all over it. I’m sure it would compliment the Mark.”

He’d insisted on wearing black for the entire final three months. Voluminous black robes with buttons carved in silver to look like Medusa’s head. Harry said they reminded him of Snape “and not in a good way.” 

By far, Harry had preferred him naked, but nakedness in public was not an option.

“Men should not be pregnant,” Draco had told him on numerous occasions. “I feel like I’m walking around with a sign pinned to my abdomen reading ‘I take it up the arse.’ Because you _know_ that’s what everybody thinks when they see a pregnant wizard. ‘Oh, does he have ovaries in his bum?’ or ‘Will giving birth feel like taking a satisfying shit on a Sunday morning?’”

“They’re also thinking, ‘Merlin, Harry’s a serious stud to have knocked up a bloke!’” 

“Ha ha.”

But despite their light heartedness, the pregnancy was anything but a laughing matter. There’d been barely legal potions that burned like acid in his throat and several operations to create space for a developing foetus. There’d also been hormones that made him rage or cry uncontrollably for no apparent reason. He’d been amazed that Harry hadn’t left him; most of the time he was a complete arsehole to be around – one minute throwing plates and the next clinging like a barnacle.

He’d thought the craziness would all go away after the baby was born. The Healers had promised. But if anything, his moods only seemed to be getting worse. 

 

* * * *

 

Coach Devlin would be proud.

It’s only half past five in the morning, and there he was doing sits-up and push-ups and running 50-yard sprints as though his life depended on it. His heart feels like it’s getting ready to rip out of his chest like a baby Horntail from its egg, but he’d rather feel that kind of pain than the pain he felt every time he thought of Harry and Scorpius. In one night, he’d managed to raise the spectre of divorce from the one person that knew his soul _and_ cause his mother to fear for Scorpius’s life.

The muscles in his arms and shoulders burn with exertion. He knows he’s pushing himself too hard right before a match. It’s stupid; he’ll compromise his strength and agility. But he can’t stop. 

Dawn finds him lying on his back in the grass, winded and sweating and (bugger it all) leaking milk like a wonky tap. What the fuck was he doing?

“You’re here early.”

Draco sits up, startled, as Coach Devlin recovers from his Apparition

“I hope you haven’t ruined yourself for the match. What’s wrong? Did Harry make you sleep on the sofa?”

Draco shakes his head, hoping his coach will leave alone the subject of Harry. For all Draco knew, Harry could be at their flat right now packing his belongings in an expandable trunk. The thought makes him want to scream and pull his hair out and tell Coach Devlin to take the match and shove it up his arse.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

Draco shakes his head again and catches the chocolate bar his coach throws to him.

“Drink some water. You look like you’re ready to pass out.”

The stupid chocolate bar tastes like shit, and the bottle of water he drinks in one gulp barely moistens his throat.

“You look like you’re ready to tear someone’s head off and then hex them into the middle of next week.”

Draco pulls his knees up and buries his head in his folded arms. This used to be a big part of his world – flying, fighting, joking around with his team mates, after-game pints at the pub. It all seemed hollow now. How could he ever have been so carefree? So frivolous? 

He feels Coach Devlin’s hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Draco,” he says. 

He looks up, startled by the empathy in his coach’s words, but Coach Devlin was already yards away whistling tunelessly and kicking at the grass as he went.

 

* * * *

 

He’d cheated on Harry once. It’d been a stupid one night thing. Harry had been away helping train recruits in the Shetlands, and Draco had been bored.

It’d been ages since he’d gone to a club. He and Harry rarely went because neither of them liked the tight-leather-trousers-and-net-shirt scene. But he’d thought what the hell.

The man he’d hooked up with looked nothing like Harry, and Draco had fucked him in one of the revolting rooms behind the bar. The man had been a walking stereotype of a bottom – mincing, flirtatious, pretty. He’d spread his arse cheeks with his hands giving Draco an unimpeded view of the first couple inches of his rectum. He’d begged Draco to fuck him as hard as he could, and Draco had. Later, he’d seen the same man with another top begging him in exactly the same way he’d begged Draco.

He hadn’t gone home that night. He’d checked into a hotel, soaked himself in near-boiling water, and scrubbed himself raw with some lye soap he’d bought at an all-night apothecary. There was no way he was going home to sleep in his and Harry’s bed stinking of mindless unsatisfying sex.

Harry had never found out. He hadn’t needed to. The whole thing had meant _nothing_ to Draco. He hadn’t given a shit about the man he’d fucked. He didn’t know his name. He’d never see him again. Harry was in no way threatened by his one stupid night.

But this was different. Harry knew this What’s-his-name. He worked with him. He saw him everyday and exchanged greetings. The man was handsome and young. Barely out of Hogwarts. Like all the new recruits, he must worship Harry.

Harry had always been amazingly oblivious to the worship he received, but that’d been because he was in love and happy and cared for and needed.

And wanted.

What’s-his-name must’ve reached out and tenderly cupped Harry’s jaw, pulling him into a kiss he’d been longing for since he was a boy. He must’ve thought _at last_. And then Harry hadn’t pushed him away. He’d opened his mouth and invited his tongue. There was no way it couldn’t have been arousing. Sweet, desired, trembling. Harry’s eyes drifting shut so that his lashes touched his cheeks. His hands on Harry’s waist and Harry’s hands on his.

Draco knew because that was how _their_ first kiss had been. Longed for. Ached for. Draco had had his cock buried to his balls in some rent boy’s arse, but that kiss – that one kiss that Harry hadn’t rejected quickly enough – was a thousand times worse.

 

* * * *

 

As he always did, Draco washed his face and shaved with a straight razor before he kitted up and laced his boots, polished to the point he could see his reflection on the leather. It was pompous, but he didn’t care. It was a ritual he’d engaged in since his Hogwarts years – even before he had whiskers. It made him feel like a man, and he _needed_ to feel like man whenever Harry was around. He’d developed the ritual because of Harry – because Harry made him crazy – and he needed to calm himself before a match, whether he was actually playing against Harry or just knew Harry would be in the stands watching. If he’d known then why Harry made him so crazy, he would’ve forgone the shave for a good satisfying wank to the thought of Harry sucking his cock. That would’ve focused him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” says Crockaworth. “I would’ve played with my bad wrist, but I would’ve sucked. There’s no one like you up there.”

Draco smiles grimly and scrapes the whiskers off the razorblade with his thumb. His knuckles were still torn and bleeding from having punched the wall at the Manor. He isn’t surprised when most of his team mates avoid him. They know to leave him alone before a match.

The match. It’s all he can think of because after the match he’d have to face things he didn’t know if he could bear facing. He knows his pride and the havoc it can wreck. His mouth would curse Harry while his heart cried out for him. Hopefully Harry would be able to hear his heart and ignore his mouth. But that wasn’t always the case. Not when there were so many intense emotions – and equally intense insecurities – between them. 

The stands are full.

“We leaked it to the press that you’d be playing,” Hamilton whispers, putting her arm around his shoulders. “I know you’re feeling rusty, but you’re going to be great. I know you will.”

He kisses her cheek. “You’ll be great too,” he says. “As always.”

She gives him a playful shove. “It’s good to have you back, Malfoy,” she says. “We’ve missed you.”

The Magpies walk out on to the pitch and the crowd lets out a roar. He can hear them chanting his name, and it fills him with a familiar rash elation. He could be a schoolboy again, willing to do anything to earn that devotion. He needs it like the air he breathes.

Today he is neither a husband nor a father. He’s Draco Malfoy, Seeker.

Adrien Racim is waiting for him, the wind whipping his cloak and blowing back his long hair. When their eyes meet, everyone and everything else disappears. It’s just the two of them.

“I’ve missed you,” says Racim as they shake hands. “The sad excuse they had as a Seeker while you were away was pathetic. Stealing the Snitch from him was like stealing sweets from a baby.”

Draco feels his heart turn over, but he _cannot_ think of _his_ baby. Not now.

He crushes Racim’s hand when he shakes it, and watches with pleasure as the other man grimaces. “Good luck up there,” he says as he does every time they fly against each other.

“And you too, Malfoy. You’d better not be out-of-shape because I’ve been waiting months for this day.”

They step apart, and the whistle blows, signalling the start of the match.

 

* * * *

 

He’d woke one morning just days before giving birth to find Harry watching him. His expression was sombre. Draco had smiled, but Harry’s smile in response was uncertain and fleeting. 

“I wish I hadn’t suggested we have a baby,” he’d said.

Draco had wanted to punch him. There he was, hugely pregnant, and Harry was having second thoughts.

“I haven’t had enough time alone with you,” Harry continued. “I still don’t know how you feel about me.”

Draco had furrowed his brows. Harry was being mental. How on earth could he not know that Draco loved him more than anything? How could he not know how desperately Draco needed him? Harry was everything to him; he always had been. Everything he’d ever wanted from the moment they’d first met.

“You’re being an idiot. You know how I feel about you.”

Harry had looked away from his face and focused on his belly where he drew spirals and squiggly lines with his fingertip. Draco could feel the sheer power of Harry’s magic graze his own and their unborn child’s. It made him shiver.

“Actually, no I don’t.”

Draco had rolled his eyes.

“Of course you do; I tell you all the time.”

“You tell me what?”

“How I feel about you.”

“Which is?”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake. This is a stupid conversation.”

“How do you feel about me, Draco?”

“I feel that you’re being annoying and have woken me up for no good reason.”

“This is a good reason. I want to know how you feel about me.”

“Besides from fond irritation?”

“Yes, besides fond irritation.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times how I feel about you. This is getting tiresome. I don’t like it when you get clingy. It’s unnerving.”

“I’m not being clingy; I just want to hear you say how you feel about me.”

“Potter. I’m going to have your baby any day now. How do you think I feel about you?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. Draco, how do you feel about me?”

Draco was beyond fond irritation by that point; he was genuinely pissed off and told Harry so. He’d got out of bed and slammed the door of the bathroom. Harry wanted too much from him. Wasn’t the fact that he was about to have his guts ripped out sufficient to tell Harry that he loved him . . . . ?

And that’s when he’d realised it: He had never, in the nearly three years they’d been together, actually _told_ Harry that he loved him.

He’d always just assumed that Harry knew, because after all, wasn’t it blatantly obvious?

He’d left the bathroom intent on saying those three words to Harry, but Harry was already out of bed and cooking something delicious down in the kitchen. Draco had promised himself he’d tell Harry later.

He couldn’t remember if he actually had.

 

* * * *

 

This was not practice-flying; this was the real thing. Draco is in the air and twenty feet off the ground before he even realises he’d taken off. It’s sheer instinct – a muscle memory from as far back as his early childhood. He leans forward on his broom and circles the stadium, taking a moment to salute the Minister in her box.

It was like being drunk on the best champagne money can buy. It was like fucking on expensive sheets. It was like swallowing fire. It was like nothing else in this world.

They fly like they’ve never flown against each other before – hard and fast and dangerously. When they were close enough, they exchanged body blows, trying to knock each other into a tailspin. 

“Fuck, Malfoy! I wouldn’t know you’ve been sick for half a year if you hadn’t told me. You’re playing for keeps.” Racim grins a bloody grin. Draco had already punched him in the mouth. “Too bad it’s not enough.”

“Suck my dick,” Draco replies. It’s not elegant, but it succinctly conveys its sentiment.

“Don’t tempt me; I don’t want to find myself at the wrong end of Harry Potter’s wand.”

Draco stops on a pence piece and soars in a backward circle. Harry. Scorpius. His beautiful little family that he seemed so intent on destroying. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

A Bludger barely misses his head, and Draco goes in search of the Beater responsible. He flies full speed right at him, feinting at the very last second. The Beater clutches the handle of his broom and wobbles to the point where he almost loses control. The crowd screams its approval. They love it when Draco gives in to his uglier instincts.

“Still drinking yourself into an early grave?” he asks as Racim catches up with him on a straightaway.

“Every chance I get.”

“Which is what? Every morning with breakfast?”

Someday, when their professional Quidditch days were over, Draco suspected that he and Racim would be friends. It was a thing among Seekers. They may be fierce rivals, but they were also part of an elite fraternity. No player in any other position knew what it was like to soar into the clouds in search of a shooting star.

“All the better for me,” says Draco, falling into a Wronski Feint.

The day is perfect – sunny, blue skies, cool without being cold. He feels the wind in his face and the dew of the clouds clinging to his hair. Someday he would teach Scorpius to fly and they’d go out together. Soaring over the fields and looking down at the smog of the cities, laughing and free and in love with life – the life that Draco had given him, the life that he’d carved from his own bones and moulded with his own flesh.

He only has an instant to see the enraged face of the Beater he’d challenged before the Bludger hits him in the stomach.

 

* * * *

 

He’d returned to consciousness slowly as though he was drifting to the surface of a bottomless sea. All around him were noise and lights and charms and spells. Someone was dabbing his face and throat with a cool wet cloth and someone else was bandaging his abdomen. 

Somewhere a baby was screaming.

Draco had opened his eyes and saw the tiniest little person he’d ever seen. He was cradled in a pair of bare arms. He had fine white-blond hair and an angry purple face.

He was the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen.

“Is he mine?” he’d asked, and someone had said “yes.” He’d held out his arms and suddenly they were full of squirming life. The baby immediately began mouthing at his bare chest, and Draco instinctively knew what he was looking for even though no one had talked to him about wizards being able to breast-feed. His baby was hungry and he had the means of feeding him. It was that simple really. 

It’d been awkward at first. Some forward-thinking person had shaved the hair from around his nipples, but they were still too flat and muscled for the baby to get a firm seal. He tried several times, following the patient instructions of the midwife, but it eventually became clear that that he’d have to pinch his nipple and place it inside the toothless little mouth. The baby had been fussy but as soon as he latched on, he was immediately calm. Draco had looked down and watched him suck, his eyes closed with bliss and milk dribbling down his chin.

At last, he’d looked up and realised that there was a roomful of people: the midwife, three Healers, his mother, his aunt . . .

. . . and Harry, who’d leaned down and kissed him deeply, tongue and all. He’d never forget the feeling of those two mouths on him – Scorpius’s and Harry’s. For a brief but brilliantly clear moment, life made complete sense. 

“It’s going to be a long time before you can walk,” one of the Healers had said, but Draco hadn’t cared. As long as he could feed his baby, he didn’t really give a shit about anything else. Including his mother, who was bustling around straightening his pillows and brushing his hair back from his face.

“You look positively dreadful, darling,” she’d said, but Draco had seen the tears in her eyes. It was then he’d realised just how afraid they’d all been and how much of a miracle it was for him to be alive and holding his son.

“Don’t worry about changing sides,” the midwife said. “Use one side for one meal and the other for the next. He’ll unlatch on his own when he’s full.”

He was too awed and overwhelmed to feel embarrassed. That would come later, but for that first couple of days, he forgot that he had any particular gender. All he’d known was that he was the sole source of nourishment for this tiny person in his arms. And that was enough.

* * * *

 

He’s staring into Harry’s eyes. They’re unrealistically green and surrounded by dark – almost girlishly thick – eyelashes. His pupils are dilated with fear, and their combination with his round glasses makes him look owlish. He reaches up to touch Harry’s face and is surprised when the hand is covered with blood and mud and bits of grass.

Is that his hand? He looks for a ring. If it’s his left hand, he’ll see a gold wedding band, and if it’s his right hand, he’ll see the Malfoy crest.

The bloody hand is wearing his father’s, father’s, father’s signet ring.

It’s his then. Why can’t he feel it? Why can’t he feel Harry’s kiss when Harry presses his lips to his palm?

Suddenly, he’s aware of a lot of commotion. Feet and shins are all around him, and occasionally faces appear next to Harry’s. It’s a funny dream because there’s Adrien Racim and Coach Devlin and Bernadette Hamilton and Ava, the team’s mediwitch. Their expressions are nearly as terrified as Harry’s is.

He can feel nothing, but it’s not a natural kind of feeling nothing. It’s heavy and dense and clearly a spell. He tries to speak, but the only thing to leave his mouth is blood.

“For God’s sake, Draco, don’t move! They’re doing everything they can. Sssshhhhh, love. It’s okay.”

But there’s nothing in Harry’s face that confirms his words.

“He’s losing blood too quickly!”

“I know, but we _have_ to make the incision!”

“Thank Merlin, you were here Harry! The fall would’ve killed him in an instant if you hadn’t softened it.”

“It may not be enough ultimately . . . I can hardly feel a heartbeat.”

“I’ll siphon away some of the blood with my wand; it’ll give us a couple minutes . . .”

“He doesn’t have a couple minutes!”

“But it’s the only thing we can do . . . he’ll never make it to St. Mungo’s . . .”

“It’s Healer McKay! Get out of the way!”

“Can you make the incision, Healer? I wasn’t trained to do surgery.”

“Get me my wand! It’s in the left pocket of my robe!”

“Christ. The liver’s ruptured. Someone send their Patronus!”

“I already have.” Harry’s voice is calm and grim. 

“Well, someone needs to send another one to the head midwife.”

“A _maternity healer_? What on earth are you talking about?”

“We can’t do anything until we know if the baby can be saved.”

_Baby???_

“Baby?” Harry’s face goes blank and very pale.

“Yes, Mr. Potter. I’d just assumed you wouldn’t be surprised. I’m not sure if I’m delivering bad news at a bad time, but it’s true. She looks to be almost 16 weeks along.”

“ _She?_ ”

Poor Harry.

“He just had our son six weeks ago!”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have time for a lesson on multiple pregnancies in wizards . . .”

“WHY ARE WE WAITING?”

“Because he’s _pregnant_! We need to know if the baby is going to survive . . .”

“But the longer you wait, the worse his chances of survival!”

“I don’t feel at all comfortable ending a pregnancy without knowing all the facts – or what your husband feels about it . . . .”

“Fuck how he feels about it! Do the surgery _now_!”

“If we do the surgery, it may kill the foetus.”

Harry begins to cry. Poor Harry. Draco wants to touch him, but he can’t. 

“I don’t care,” he sobs. “I don’t fucking care. I want him to live. I don’t care what it takes!”

Pregnant.

Well, Harry isn’t the only one who’s shocked.

“Thank God you’re here, Tildi! We have more than our usual Quidditch injury here.”

“Get everyone out of my way! Except you, McKay. I’ll need you.”

There’s a loud whistle. Coach Devlin is literally pushing back the circle of players and fans.

“Where is she? . . . Ah, yes, there she is.”

“Apparently, he didn’t even know he was pregnant.”

“Well, why should he? I just helped deliver his son less than two months ago.”

“Let go of me _now_ , or so help me, I will . . . !”

“He can stay. Let Harry stay. He may be the one who needs to make the decision.”

“I’ve already made the decision! Save him! No price is too high!”

“Jesus, Harry . . .”

“Devlin! Don’t fucking _touch_ me! This is your fault!”

Harry grabs his hand. “If you can hear me, Draco, forgive me. Please.”

“Put him all the way under. We don’t want him to be able to watch this . . .”

Draco struggles and tries to speak again. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he knows he doesn’t want the baby to die. He squeezes Harry’s hand weakly and looks into his eyes.

Harry looks back.

“His spleen is too damaged; we’ll have to remove it first . . .”

_Harry_ , he says. _Don’t let her die._

He knows Harry understands him because he swallows and turns away.

“How could I ever love her as much as I love you?” he asks brokenly.

Draco’s consciousness is fading, but his eyes don’t relent. _Save the baby._

Harry’s eyes brim with tears, and he dashes them away with the hand that isn’t clutching Draco’s.

“Fuck you, Draco,” he spits angrily. “I love you.”

Draco’s not sure what he means, but there’s no time to think about it. The world goes grey and then black.

 

* * * *

 

The first time he’d felt Scorpius kick, he was certain it was gas and tried to belch. They’d been at the Leaky with Harry’s friends. It was Weasley’s birthday.

“Nice one, Malfoy,” Weasley had said and held up his pint glass in a salute. “And there I was thinking you were too much of a ponce to let one rip.”

“Ron,” said Granger. “He flies marathons. For fun.”

Their conversation had continued, but he hadn’t paid even the slightest bit of attention to it. Instead, he’d fumbled in his gargantuan robes until he could press his palm against his bare belly.

He’d felt the burp-like feeling again, but this time he’d also felt a jab from inside. He’d grabbed Harry’s hand and pressed it against him and watched his questioning expression turn into one of amazement.

“Do you want to leave?” Harry had mouthed at him.

Draco had turned over his hand and traced the word “yes” in his palm.

Harry had immediately glanced at his watch.

“I forgot to mention it,” he’d told his friends, “but we have tickets to a play tonight. Sorry, but we have to dash.”

“How nice,” Granger had said. “Which play?”

“Er.”

Thankfully, Draco had read the arts section of the paper that morning.

“The Talisman of Oromanes.”

“I’ve heard it’s received a number of good reviews.”

“Well, we’ll tell you all about it later,” Harry had said, tugging Draco out of his chair. “Bye! Happy birthday, mate. See you later. Uhm. Yeah. Bye . . .”

“Shut up, Harry. Go and have a good time.”

“Was that a kick?” Harry asked as soon as they’d stepped out of their hearth. 

“Either that or some really bad indigestion.”

He’d felt himself grinning from ear to ear.

“Can I feel him again?”

“It’s not like he’s a karate master, Potter.”

“Yet.”

They’d stripped and got into bed even though it was still light outside.

“Sometimes I feel jealous,” Harry said, lying between Draco’s bent thighs and lightly resting his chin on his belly.

“Why? You want to barf all the time and look like Professor Slughorn?”

“You _don’t_ look like Professor Slughorn,” Harry had replied. “I know because I’ve got a raging hard-on right now, and I would never ever under any circumstances get hard for Slughorn.” He shuddered melodramatically. “But seriously, I do get jealous sometimes.”

Draco had reached down and run his fingers through Harry’s thick dark hair. He didn’t respond because he’d realised that if he was Harry, he’d be jealous too. Yes, he was an Erumpent who had to drink non-alcoholic cocktails, but he had a baby growing inside of him. Sometimes, if he lay very still and quiet in the hours just before dawn, he _knew_ he could feel a tiny heartbeat fluttering like a moth.

In all his life, he’d never felt so helplessly in love. It was terrifying.

“Well, you could’ve been the one who got pregnant,” he’d said.

Harry had shuddered again, but this time not playfully.

“You know how I feel about my bum.”

Draco had laughed. “This has stopped being about bums a long, long time ago.”

“Speaking of bums . . .”

They’d made love with Draco on his knees. Harry was slow and tender, but nonetheless it was obvious that he was perturbing the baby because he began kicking again.

Suddenly Harry froze.

“I felt him,” he’d whispered.

Draco had looked over his shoulder at him.

“Are you trying to tell me you just poked our son with your dick?”

Harry nodded his head. He’d looked awed and even humbled.

“You have a baby inside you.”

Draco would’ve laughed, but Harry clearly hadn’t meant what he’d said to be humorous. Instead, he’d pulled back and thrust in deeply a couple more times and then came with a rough visceral sort of groan. His orgasm seemed to go on forever.

He’d made Draco come with his mouth. Afterward they’d lain together quietly watching the sun set through their window. Draco was on his side, and Harry was curled around his back with his arm around Draco’s middle.

“I think it’ll be okay,” Harry had whispered against Draco’s neck.

Draco had been dozing, and it’d taken a few seconds before he’d really heard what Harry had said.

“What’ll be okay?” he’d asked.

“Us,” Harry replied. “Even though I’ll never again be the person you love most in your life.”

Draco had wanted to respond with something light-hearted and nonchalant, but there’d been something about Harry’s voice that stopped him. He was about to say that it wasn’t true; that Harry would always be the one true love of his life, but then he’d remembered that tentative heartbeat next to his. 

He’d shifted so he could cover Harry’s hand with his.

“You will always be the father of the one person I love most in my life. And that’s saying something.”

Harry kissed his neck and made him shiver deeper into his embrace and they’d lain quietly until it was dark.

It was only much later when Harry got up to use the toilet that he’d felt the wetness on his neck and in his hair and realised Harry had been crying.

 

* * * *

 

The baby that Harry is holding this time is so tiny that she fits in one of his hands. She’s wearing a tiny knit cap, and there are strong spells surrounding her. Draco can see them; they look like the iridescent colours on a soap bubble. 

He reaches for her, but he can’t raise his arms.

Harry must see the panic in his face.

“It’s alright, Draco. It’s okay. You’re not paralysed. You’ve been in a spell-induced coma for nearly three months. You have almost no muscle tone because you’ve been prevented from moving. Your strength _will_ come back.”

“How old?” It takes a phenomenal amount of energy just to speak.

“She’s 30 weeks. The Healers delivered her three weeks ago.”

“Can you put her on me?”

Harry gently places the baby on his chest. He can’t lift his head to get a proper look at her, but he can feel warmth and tiny movements.

He feels his heart bloom open in the same way it had for Scorpius, and he smiles up at Harry.

Harry turns away, but returns in a couple minutes with a big baby in his arms. Scorpius seems to be trying to eat his hand and there’s drool covering his chin. He grins toothlessly and reaches out when he sees Draco. His hair is thin but it covers his whole head.

“I think he’s started teething,” Harry says. “He’s been putting things in his mouth lately. Even more than usual.”

Draco stares at the baby in Harry’s arms. He seems enormous compared to his sister. 

“You’d better not be giving him Muggle formula.”

Harry shakes his head. “We’ve had him on a potion that is almost identical to breast milk. Don’t worry. I haven’t permanently scarred him with my incompetence.” 

Draco frowns. Harry’s voice is rueful. He looks away when Draco tries to meet his gaze.

“Can she feed?”

“Not yet. She doesn’t have enough strength. But she will before too long.”

“Harry . . .”

Harry closes his eyes and swallows.

“It’s okay,” he says. 

Clearly, it’s not. He fights the haze in his mind, trying to remember . . .

“When can I go home?”

“Soon.”

His mother sweeps into the room.

“Darling,” she says softly. “I heard you were awake. How are you feeling?”

Draco just looks at her.

“Of course,” she says. “You feel awful.”

He gives her a questioning look.

“Mother’s instinct,” she says. “You can’t feel an emotion that I can’t read.”

He closes his eyes when he feels the tiny baby squirm on his chest.

“Draco, darling, open your eyes.”

He does. Harry’s no longer in the room.

“You haven’t lost him completely yet.”

“What did I do? I can’t remember.”

“I don’t know. That’s something you’ll need to find out.”

“I’ve been cruel.”

His mother shrugs. “Like I said, that’s something you’ll need to figure out.” She pauses and traces an elegant finger from the tiny baby’s forehead to her toes. “You give birth to beautiful babies,” she says. “And Harry’s half the reason why. Why are you treating him like an intruder when he should be your partner?”

Draco closes his eyes. He doesn’t have a good answer to her question.

* * * *

When he returns to his flat, leaning on his aunt’s shoulder as he steps from the Floo, he can sense Harry’s not there.

He must be out shopping for groceries.

His mother emerges from the Floo a moment later with Scorpius in her arms and goes to the kitchen.

“Darling, would you like a cup of tea?”

Draco nods. He’s strong enough now to stand and move his arms, but it was still difficult to walk. She brings the cup and saucer to him.

“I’m going upstairs to change,” his aunt says.

Draco swallows. His throat is suddenly tight.

“Where’s Harry?” he asks. 

His mother looks down at her hands, and his aunt presses her lips together in a thin line.

“Why are you sleeping in the guest room?” he asks his aunt.

“Draco, love, you’re tired. Let me help you upstairs.”

He stands and takes the arm she offers him. He moves as though he’s in a trance. What has he done? Where was Harry?

His question is answered the moment he steps into their bedroom. Harry’s dresser is gone and in its place is Scorpius’s cot.

“Christ! What have I done?”

“Darling . . .”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me! Where is Harry?”

The bed is made. There are no signs of a head resting on the pillow on Harry’s side. His nightstand is empty. No stupid Quidditch magazines and half-empty teacups.

His mother hands him Scorpius, and Draco buries his face against him. He weighs so much.

“Where is he?” he asks without looking up.

“Just a block away; he’s renting a little flat. Don’t worry. He’ll be here to pick up Scorpius tomorrow morning.”

He can’t breathe. He can’t even think. “I kicked him out, didn’t I?”

“It would look that way,” said his aunt. “He won’t talk to us about it.”

God! What had he done?

“Go take a bath,” his mother says gently. “I’ll give Scorpius his dinner.”

She helps him out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom. She points her wand at the tap and water began filling the bath. The shelf is empty save for a toothbrush and toothpaste and a bar of soap.

Harry had clearly decided to be cruel right back. He’d taken everything. Even the mundane stupid things.

His mother leaves the room, and slowly he undresses. His skin isn’t just pale, it’s slightly grey coloured, and flaps of flesh drape from his arms, making the tattoos they’d given him in Azkaban look stretched. Worse of all, he still had the weight he’d gained with Scorpius. He’d thought maybe it’d been due entirely to his other pregnancy, but it clearly didn’t. He looked worse than horrible.

No wonder Harry had left without a fight.

He stepped into the tub and slipped down under the water, his eyes level with the surface. What had he done? What could he have been thinking?

 

* * * *

 

He hadn’t even had the excuse of being drunk. He’d only had two pints when he followed Harry into the gents and pushed him up against the wall and kissed him. It’d got to a point where he hadn’t even cared about Harry’s response. All he’d known was he’d had to feel Harry’s mouth against his own or die. He’d sacrificed their tentative friendship for a taste of cheese and onion crisps and cheap lager on Harry’s lips.

He hadn’t been able to take it any longer. His whole body craved a mere moment of contact. He’d pressed his groin against Harry’s groin and his chest against Harry’s chest. There’d been no way Harry could’ve thought it was a drunken joke. Draco had been shaking with need.

Harry had locked the door with a whisper and devoured Draco’s mouth as though he, too, had been starving for a kiss. His hands were suddenly in Draco’s hair, holding him close.

“Your flat,” he’d said, his voice scratchy and raw, and in mere seconds, they’d been on the rug in front of Draco’s hearth, frotting against each other as though they’d been actually fucking. Draco had lain on his back and opened his thighs for Harry’s hips. He’d never wanted anyone to fuck him before. It’d had been as strange and unlikely a thing as having Harry Potter in his arms and between his legs. He wanted to be fucked. Hard. Unmercifully. He’d wanted to be split open.

They hadn’t been able to get out of their jeans that night before they both had come. Draco found he couldn’t bear to be separated even for the brief time it would have taken for them to undress. His orgasm had built slowly and hung on the crest for an agonising minute. “Fuck me,” he’d urged Harry. He’d needed Harry inside him. Not wanted, _needed_. But his words had made Harry come, and Harry coming had made him come.

Harry had spent the night. There’d been no question about throwing him out as he’d done with the others. Harry’s dark hair against the white pillow; his eyes closed in sleep; his hand curled under his chin. How had Draco lived without this?

 

* * * *

 

He’s sitting on the sofa with Scorpius on his lap when Harry arrives. Their eyes meet briefly before Harry looks away.

“Why did I do it?”

Harry looks back, surprised.

“Why did you do what?”

He hasn’t even removed his coat. There is rain in his hair. Draco chokes on the familiarity of it all, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak for a moment.

“Why’d I tell you to go?”

Harry retrieved Scorpius from his lap, and Draco let him though it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

“You didn’t want me anymore. And I kissed someone. Another man. You don’t remember?”

Draco shakes his head. How could he have ever made Harry believe he didn’t want him?

Harry rests Scorpius on his hip with an ease that spoke of experience. He looks tired.

“Why the fuck did you listen to me, you arsehole? I was half insane with hormones. Had it been _that_ easy to leave?”

Harry finds Scorpius’s hat and puts it on, although it takes several attempts to keep it there; Scorpius kept pulling it off and flinging it. Finally Harry had to use a sticking charm.

“I’m not going to let you blame this on me,” he says without looking at Draco. “Are you going to go to St. Mungo’s today to see our daughter . . . ?

“You haven’t named her yet?” Draco says indignantly. “God, Potter. She’s three weeks old!”

“I wasn’t going to choose a name without you,” he replies and turns to leave.

“Potter!”

Harry stops but doesn’t turn around. “You broke my heart,” he says.

“Well, you were clearly stupid enough to let me break it!” Draco yells at his back.

Harry laughs mirthlessly. 

“It never stops being my fault, does it?” 

“ _You_ were the one who wanted children, not me!”

God, what is he doing? Why can’t he shut his mouth?

“Well, I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m leaving now, Draco. I’ll be at home if you need me.”

His use of the word “home” to describe his stupid flat breaks Draco’s heart.

“Is the place even fit for children?” he snaps.

Harry doesn’t respond. He simply opens the door and leaves.

* * * *

The tiny girl can barely open her eyes, but it doesn’t matter. He can see them clearly – they’re _that_ green. The little bit of hair she has is dark and very soft. He strokes it with the tips of his fingers while she stares at him. He’s sure he’s imagining it, but her eyes feel accusatory: _I deserve a family,_ they say. _Stop fucking everything up._

Since waking, he’d learned from the midwife that sometimes wizards can have concurrent single pregnancies. If the parents have unprotected sex during one pregnancy, they can conceive again. It wasn’t that uncommon, actually. It all depended on the concentration of the original potion in the bloodstream. 

“Thanks for the heads-up on that,” he’d said ruefully.

As he sits with his daughter surrounded by harsh spells designed to preserve lives that had begun too soon, he wracked his brain to recall when she might’ve been conceived, and at last settled on the night he and Harry had made love for the last time before Scorpius was born. The odd sensation he’d felt when Harry came hadn’t been a result of hurting Scorpius; it had been the result of another conception . . .

Goddamn Harry and his Super Sperm

“You’re _sure_ there’s no more,” he’d said pleadingly, and the midwife had laughed.

He’d failed to see the humour. It seemed an entirely reasonable question under the circumstances.

“Go ahead,” says a nurse who’d moved so quietly that he appeared to materialise out of thin air. “Pick her up. She’s not strong enough to go home yet, but she’s strong enough to be held. In fact, she needs to be held. She misses the warmth of your body.”

With the nurse’s help, Draco scoops her up with trembling hands. She’s so tiny and fragile! Compared to her, Scorpius seemed like a strapping beast.

If he’d been crazy and protective of Scorpius, how was he going to be with her . . . ?

“Finally done with the ‘food poisoning’?”

Draco looks up and sees his coach with a nurse’s mask on his face. His ginger moustache bristles out at the edges as though a small animal is trying to escape.

He winces. “Uhm, yeah. I think so . . . I mean I _hope_ so.”

Coach Devlin leans over his shoulder to look at the baby in Draco’s arms.

“Why in nine blazing hells didn’t you tell me, Malfoy? Are you really _that_ unconvinced of your masculinity?”

Draco frowns and focuses all of his attention on straightening his daughter’s little cap. 

“I was bloody _pregnant_ ,” he snaps. “It’s difficult to feel manly while you’re pregnant. Take my word for it.”

“If the little bit I’ve read on wizard pregnancies is right, you’ve accomplished the near-impossible. Twice now. And survived an injury that few would have the strength to survive . . .”

Draco rolls his eyes. Devlin pulls over a chair and sits down beside him.

“I remember the day I met you . . .”

“Bloody hell,” Draco groans. “Are we going to have the equivalent of a pre-match pep talk? Because if so, then spare . . .”

“Shut up, Malfoy. That’s your coach’s order.”

Draco closes his mouth but he’s still glaring, just like his daughter had been glaring at him.

“When I realised that one of the recruits I’d chosen for the team was a Marked Death Eater, I nearly tore the clubhouse apart with my bare fists. My brother had died in the War, and I was not willing to forgive and forget. When I confronted you with my knowledge, you took a deep breath and looked me in the eyes. Everything in your expression said ‘go on, curse me!’ And it was that bare uncompromising gaze that made me pause. You were so young, and I could tell by your tattoos that you’d done a significant sentence in Azkaban, but you weren’t apologetic . . .”

“. . . I . . . that’s not entirely true . . .”

“Shut up, Malfoy, I’m not done talking. As I was standing there thinking about what to do, I heard my brother’s voice saying, ‘give him a chance.’ I didn’t want to, but I did anyway, and it’s the best choice I’ve ever made – as a coach and as a person. You worked harder than any player I’ve ever had, and you never covered up that fucking Mark. You just took the beatings it earned you and moved on. The team went from the edge of mutiny to adoring you. You’re tough, Malfoy. There aren’t a lot of men who will take a punch or a hex and not fight back. And then when I heard you’d defected . . . . I heard it from someone else and was shocked that you hadn’t told me yourself. From the very beginning, you could’ve said ‘. . . but, coach, I defected and fought for the Order,’ and my feelings about you would’ve been very different. But you never said anything. You just took the shite and pushed past it. You insisted on being judged as you _are_ , not as you _were_ , good and bad . . .”

The baby squishes up her tiny face and starts to cry. It’s the saddest, most wrenching sound Draco’s ever heard. It’s clear she’s putting all her strength into it, but it just comes out as a feeble little sound. Without even pausing to think, Draco unbuttons his shirt and cuddles her against his bare chest. She’s so small, he can cover her whole body with one hand. He murmurs against her ear and kisses the top of her head. When he looks up, he’s surprised to see his coach still there and blushes hotly.

“Uhm, sorry,” he says. “What were you saying?”

Coach Devlin smiles and stands up. He places a hand on Draco’s shoulder and squeezes. “Stop being ashamed,” he says after a minute. “Of everything.”

He walks to the door but stops before he leaves. “Oh, and I want your arse in shape for the World Cup,” he says. “No more of this ‘but I just gave birth’ shite.’”

Draco grins. Devlin hadn’t seen anything yet.

 

 

“Lily.”

Harry jumps when Draco steps out of his hearth.

“Bloody hell, Draco! You fucking scared me!”

“Lily,” Draco replies. “I want to name her ‘Lily.’”

Harry stares at him. He looks like he’s waiting for another shoe to drop.

“Why?”

Draco can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Because it’s a pretty name. And it was your mother’s, you stupid arse.”

Harry scratches the back of his neck in an irritated gesture.

“I thought we were going to talk about this . . .”

“Well, we’re talking about it. I want to call her Lily. What do you want to call her?”

Harry glares at him. “Lily,” he says combatively.

Draco gives him a look that suggested Harry might be insane.

“Then we agree.”

“Your mum’s not going to be happy. Don’t you want to name her ‘Frejya’ or something? She’s been scouring her books on Norse Mythology . . .”

“I don’t bloody care what my mother’s been doing. She’s _our_ daughter, and I want to name her Lily. Why are we arguing if we both agree? Oh, and by the way, where’s Scorpius?”

“Don’t worry; I haven’t killed him or sold him to gypsies. He’s napping.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest you killed him . . . .”

Harry turns and walks away.

“Potter! For fuck sake! Don’t be such a bloody moron!”

Harry stops but he doesn’t turn around. “Scorpius’s things are all packed, and I changed his nappy before he went to sleep. I’m going to the hospital now. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Harry is disappearing down the hall of his stupid flat. He’s dressed in old ripped jeans and a t-shirt of uncertain and unflattering colour. His hair doesn’t look like it’s been brushed properly in weeks, and he looks like he’s lost weight.

“I’ll have Scorpius ready in a min . . .”

“Where’s the stupid bedroom in this stupid flat?” Draco spits. 

Harry turns with a scowl.

“Why? Do you want to cast a revealing spell on the bed to see who’s been in it?”

Draco is sure he looks as blood-thirsty as Harry does. He pulls off his cloak and throws it on the floor.

“Yes,” he says. “But only after _I’ve_ been in it.”

He takes his wand from the pocket of his robe and places it on the coffee table, making it clear with his gaze that Harry should do the same. And then he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Harry’s expression is impossible to read, and it takes all that Draco has not to look away and stop undressing. His heart pounds uncomfortably and his breathing is too shallow. He’d frankly rather die than do what he’s about to do.

Harry swallows both visibly and audibly. 

“The bedroom’s down this way,” he says.

He turns and Draco follows him into the unremarkable room with its unmade bed and dirty laundry on the floor. Draco’s about to make a quip about how Harry’s lover must be just as slovenly as he is, but he bites his tongue. He remembers the reproach he’d imagined in Lily’s eyes.

“Lie back,” Draco demands, and Harry complies suspiciously. “And make yourself comfortable for the most disgusting striptease you’ve ever had.”

Draco can’t look at Harry’s face. If he does, then he’ll lose the tiny bit of courage he’s conjured for this moment. The slightest sign of revulsion would crush him, and he’d say something truly awful, and then Harry really would be gone, and his children would never forgive him. He’d never forgive himself.

“Get ready to have the oh-so lovely experience of having someone try to turn you on while your dick is limper than an overcooked piece of spaghetti. I’m sure you’ll remember how much I enjoyed it.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, and Draco doesn’t look at him, but all the while he’s undoing clasps and unbuttoning buttons and stripping off each layer of protection. He doesn’t need to see his reflection in the mirror above the chest of drawers; he already knows what he looks like. Loose flab where once had all been muscle. And a belly as plump and soft as marshmallow. 

His ears strain for any sound from Harry. He expects the sharp intake of breath he hears, and grits his teeth. He expects the sound of the bed creaking when Harry moves.

But he doesn’t expect the sound of a belt buckle being opened and jeans being unzipped, or the unmistakable sound of wanking.

“You’d better not be taking the piss, Potter,” he says and is horrified by the tremor in his voice.

“Shut up,” Harry replies breathily. “C’mere.”

Draco still has his eyes squeezed shut as he crawls onto the bed. A walrus climbing onto a rock would probably be a flattering comparison.

Before he has the chance to settle into a comfortable position, Harry grabs his hand and places it on his cock. It’s been awhile, and Draco is amazed by the heat. He gives it a couple firm strokes, and Harry groans.

“God,” he says. “I want to fuck you.”

His words go straight to Draco’s groin, and he feels his own cock swell and stiffen. He resumes stroking Harry and is rewarded with warm slick dribble of precome. Harry groans again.

“Careful. I’m not going to last long, and I want to come inside you. Lie down.”

Draco does as he’s told, and feels his body jiggle and sway slightly as he adjusts himself among the tangled sheets. He swallows a mouthful of humiliation, and feels his cock soften. Harry seems not to notice as he starts kissing every last disgusting inch of his body – not just little pecks of kisses, but open-mouthed hungry kisses that leave cooling spit behind.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Draco covers his still-closed eyes with his hands and shakes his head. “Don’t bloody patronise me.”

Harry snarls and suddenly straddles Draco’s hips. He hears a steady wet slapping sound, and knows Harry is wanking.

“Open your eyes,” he says almost unkindly.

It takes awhile, but Draco removes his arm and slowly opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is Harry’s hand pumping his cock. The tip is purple, and Harry grunts with the exertion. He’s not looking at Draco’s eyes; he’s looking at Draco’s body.

When he comes, Harry holds his cock steady as he paints Draco’s belly with semen. He makes no attempt to make it neat and pretty, but lets himself go, thrusting into his hand. Before his come can cool, he coats his fingers, reaches around his back and begins stroking Draco’s cock with long slick strokes. The sensation of being touched with such clearly unfeigned hunger turns him on, and he loses his self-consciousness long enough to thrust ineptly into Harry’s hand.

“Don’t you dare come,” Harry says, his voice raw. “I want you halfway down my throat first.”

He dismounts Draco’s hips and slides down between his legs, and before Draco has a chance to feel ashamed again, Harry takes his cock in his mouth and swiftly begins moving his head up and down. His pace is brutal, and Draco feels his belly coil with an orgasm that Harry then rips from his body mercilessly. 

As Draco’s breathing and heart rate slowly return to normal, Harry rises onto his knees and massages the rest of his come into Draco’s skin. Draco can feel the fat move with his hands, and he squeezes his eyes shut again.

“I’m hideous,” he says. “How can you bear to look at me?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that question with a serious answer,” Harry replies, leaning forward to effectively shut his mouth with a kiss. “What I couldn’t bear was _not_ being able to look at you,” he said into the space of a breath.

Harry laps at his tongue, and kisses Draco so deeply, he’s forced to shove Harry away to catch a breath.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Harry manages to say, and Draco does. It’s not as easy and comfortable as it used to be, but Harry lets himself relax, settling on top of him with his full weight.

“Mmmmm,” he hums with feigned sleepiness. “You’re so soft.”

“Fuck you, Potter. Don’t get used to it.”

They lie still for awhile, letting their bodies speak for them. Harry’s body is languid and heavy, and he breathes against Draco’s neck making him shiver. His hands wander ceaselessly, caressing every bit of skin he can reach. Draco feels himself grow hard again.

“I almost lost you,” Harry murmurs between kisses. “ _We_ almost lost you. I was so scared.”

“Finally,” Draco replies. “I managed to scare Harry Potter.”

Harry shakes his head causing his hair to tickle Draco’s nose. “I’m not joking, Draco. I don’t know what I would have done.”

Draco pulls him closer and runs his hands down the length of his back.

“When will you break the lease on this stupid flat?”

Harry is silent for too long. Draco had expected a quick answer somewhere along the lines of “tomorrow.”

“Potter, this is ridiculous. Plus this flat is ghastly. Windows facing north? It’s like cave.”

“Is this your round-about way of saying you want me back?”

Rather than have the admission wrung out of him, Draco hurumphs and distracts Harry but rolling his hips beneath him.

“Mmmm,” Harry murmurs and presses down so they move together like a wave. “You’re like my own personalised water bed. I think I’m going to keep stuffing you with treats.

“ _Shut up_!” Draco growls and spreads his legs. He can feel Harry searching with his cock for entrance.

“I’m going to come before I’m even inside you,” Harry says. “God, you feel so good.” He reaches down to slip both arms beneath Draco’s knees, and pulls his thighs towards his chest, while almost simultaneously, he finally finds Draco’s opening and sinks in with a groan of sheer pleasure. He thrusts, and Draco feels it in a way he hadn’t when he was thin. An even fuller way. He starts to come and grabs Harry’s hips to still him.

“I’m not ready yet,” he gasps. “Go slower.”

Harry thrusts again, but this time he stays fully sheathed and sinks down, using his weight and the pliability of Draco’s body to reach places he’s never been able to reach before.

“I like you like this.”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t, so it won’t last. Enjoy it while you can.”

Harry takes a deep breath and pulls out to the head of his cock. “I plan to enjoy it all night and tomorrow night and . . .” His voice breaks when he thrusts back in, going even deeper than before. In and out, he sets the rhythm, and Draco’s body responds.

He’s _almost_ forgotten how it feels to be fucked to orgasm. It’s been a long time. But he remembers the slow but steady increase in pressure, and the way Harry’s every move stokes it. He can feel each long deep thrust and hear Harry’s helpless whimpers. All of it combines and fills his belly and hips as though his body was a bowl on the very edge of overflowing. 

Harry’s eyes are the only thing that lets him know Harry is about to come. They’re wide and stunned-looking as though every time he comes inside Draco is the first time. He always seems caught by surprise by his own orgasm, as though it was a sweet, unexpected punch to the stomach.

Draco watches him, enthralled. This was the same expression that had been the start of their children’s lives – this erotic shock that shook Harry’s whole body and left him gasping for breath. He grabs Draco and pulls him as close as he can as he thrusts one, two, three more times to empty himself. The sheer animal closeness and the gutted sound Harry makes wrings free Draco’s own climax, and they rock together, far from the shore, straining and then relaxing and then finally releasing and separating. 

They lay together, their sweat cooling and their fingers loosely linked. 

He had something he needed to say. That he should’ve said a long time ago, but then Scorpius starts to cry. On instinct, both of them tense and get ready to leap from the bed to go to him, but at the last instant, Draco restrains himself.

“Go to him,” he says.

Harry waits only long enough to give Draco a questioning look before he gets up and yanks on a pair of pants. He’s just beyond the threshold when Draco calls after him. He watches Harry’s body tense and then relax just as quickly when Draco says “I love you, Potter, and by the way? The person who gets up first changes the nappies.”

Harry grins and then disappears in the direction of his son’s cries.

Draco smirks. Harry looked far too happy for a person who’s going to be spending the next three years of his life wiping baby bums.


End file.
